


Cold Hands, Warm Heart

by chasingriver



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Anal Sex, Canada, Deepthroating, Explicit Sexual Content, First Meetings, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Holidays, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Oral Sex, Rimming, Romance, Skiing, Suit Kink, Suit Porn, Suit Sex, Suits, Winter Mystrade Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-06 18:37:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 51,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3144422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingriver/pseuds/chasingriver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft has a country to run, and the last thing he wants to do is go on a ski holiday with Sherlock and his parents. When he gets there, a ski instructor named Greg changes his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kedgeree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kedgeree/gifts), [youcantsaymylastname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcantsaymylastname/gifts), [thecount](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecount/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [Cold Hands, Warm Heart 冰冷的手 火热的心](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3721678) by [Ivylui](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivylui/pseuds/Ivylui)



> This is my entry for the Mystrade Winter Exchange (Jan 2015).  
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> [Youcantsaymylastname](http://youcantsaymylastname.tumblr.com) did a wonderful manip for this story.
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> [Camillo1978](http://camillo1978.tumblr.com) did this spectacular [painting](http://camillo1978.tumblr.com/post/111618712914/for-chasingriversongs-skiing-fic-cold-hands) for it!
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> And [this one](http://camillo1978.tumblr.com/post/114590427229/you-know-what-they-say-cold-hands-warm-heart)!
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* * *

“Mummy’s decided on this year’s family holiday.”

Sherlock’s phone call interrupts a productive afternoon, and Mycroft’s fingers drum out irritated triplets on his desk. “Please, Sherlock, spare me the details. I don’t care where it is, I’m not going.”

“Skiing in Canada,” he says, with a cheeriness that grates on his nerves.

He’s momentarily thrown for a loop. “Really? Wouldn’t somewhere in the Alps make more sense?” Not that he intends to go—he needs a family holiday like he needs a hole in the head—it just seems like an odd choice.

“Ah, see?” Sherlock says, amused. “I told her you’d rather go to Switzerland, but she wouldn’t listen.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he fumes. It’s too bad Sherlock can’t see his glare, the one that takes the extra effort with his eyebrows. “You’re overestimating my desire to be both cold and wet.”

Sherlock continues, undaunted. “She said to clear your calendar of world crises for the second week of February.”

“What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand?”

“Don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just trying to save you a phone call. I know how you love her conversations about the weather in Wiltshire.”

“Which is usually identical to the weather in London and just as spellbinding.”

“So I’ll tell her you’re going, then?”

“No, you won’t. I’ll phone her myself. I’m willing to talk about the weather if it gets me out of a week of enforced merriment.”

“Oh, come on. You might enjoy it.” Sherlock sounds smug. The sarcastic bastard probably volunteered to phone him just so he could hear his reaction.

“Almost as much as I enjoy Christmas, I’m sure.”

* * *

His conversation with Mummy goes much the same way, except she manages to be even more annoying than Sherlock.

“Don’t be silly. Of course you’re coming with us, dear.” Her mild-mannered tone belies her unbending iron will. “You’ve missed the last four holidays, and you’ve never been skiing. You didn’t come with us when we went to Switzerland.”

“Yes, well, that was almost twenty years ago, and I was trying to get an education.”

“And now you’re the only one who can’t ski.”

“Which guarantees this will be a fun-filled extravaganza of hypothermia and broken limbs.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. Besides, I’ve already booked it.”

“I’m sorry; I have to work. Under no circumstances can I leave the country for a week.”

“Well, I phoned Buckingham Palace and explained to the Queen that you hadn’t had a holiday in ages. She agreed with me—you work too hard. Said Prince Charles is just the same.”

“Save me,” he mutters and closes his eyes, trying to will away the headache lodging in the base of his skull. She has to be bluffing. Even _he_ doesn’t call the Queen. Harry, yes. But never the Queen. There are some things you just don’t do.

“She’s very nice. A lot more down-to-earth than I expected. Anyway, not to worry, it’s all taken care of.”

The headache sets up camp and invites a few friends over. Friends with jackhammers. He winces. “Yes, well, thank you for putting my professional credentials on the line so you can have your perfect family holiday. Now, I must be going; a war just came up.”

“Don’t be sarcastic, dear. Make sure to get some proper clothes; you can’t ski in a three-piece suit.”

“If anyone could, it would be me,” he grumbles back, knowing it’s true.

He phones Harry to see if she was bluffing, but she wasn’t. Apparently the Queen had taken quite a liking to her. He mumbles his apologies for the breach of protocol, but Harry laughs.

“We should get her a job in the diplomatic corps,” he says. “I’ve never met anyone less intimidated by power.”

* * *

After swearing her to secrecy, he has Anthea find him a ski shop. That’s how he ends up in a North London store filled with twenty-somethings who say ‘dude’ and a few grizzled ski bums who seem to run the place. It’s a riot of jarring colour, long skis, hard plastic boots, and uncomfortable-looking technical fabrics. The sight of a bright orange ski jacket almost sends him running out the door, but he forces himself to see the process through.

When they realise he’s there for ‘the whole package’, three people drop what they’re doing to help him. He ends up with everything: skis, poles, boots, thermal underwear, a coat, ski pants, a helmet, gloves, goggles, and a few other things they assure him he needs. He’s not even sure what they all do. It seems like an awful lot of gear for a short holiday.

The open-faced helmet is a travesty of headgear. It looks like he’s wearing a grapefruit, although thankfully a charcoal-grey one. The goggles are the only saving grace: he’s impossible to recognise with them on—which is fortunate, because he doesn’t want to be caught dead looking like this.

At least he’s able to get the coat in grey; the orange one would have continued the fruit theme and made him visible for miles. The hard plastic boots are modern-day torture devices, immediately cutting off the circulation to his calves. The whole industry seems to be a sadistic conspiracy of poor taste and worse colour choices.

As he leaves the shop, burdened down like a pack animal with ridiculous gear, he decides he’s going to wipe any photographic evidence of this holiday from the face of the earth.


	2. Chapter 2

Greg Lestrade thinks of himself as an expensive babysitter—one that will also try and teach your children to ski. Sometimes the sprogs want to learn. Sometimes it’s the parents who want them to, and the kids don’t have a say in it. But the absolute worst is when the parents dump them in ski school so they can go off for a quiet day on the slopes without their spoiled little brats.

Greg really hates those days.

It’s then that he seriously considers giving up his free season pass—the only perk in this godforsaken job—and waiting tables at one of the restaurants in the village. Except then he wouldn’t have the money for a season pass, and he wouldn’t be on the mountain every day.

It’s a cruel cosmic joke.

The intermediate classes are the best—the sprogs are at least moderately interested and skilled enough to be bombing down the harder slopes with no sense of fear or self-preservation. They’re usually having too much fun for temper tantrums.

But he dreads the beginner classes. Learning to ski isn’t easy; it involves lots of falling over and twisted knees and abject frustration for everyone involved. The instructors rotate between assignments so no one gets stuck in permanent hell. Getting the beginner class for more than a week at a time is a punitive measure reserved for new employees and those who’ve irritated the boss. Greg tries not to irritate anyone.

He’s not sure what he’s done when he gets a phone call from his boss, late one Saturday night.

“You’re off Intermediate’s next week; someone wants a private instructor. Some rich bloke from England.”

“Sounds good.” He smiles to himself. Private clients usually mean advanced instruction and harder ski slopes. The fun stuff.

“He’s never skied before.”

Greg’s heart sinks. So much for the fun stuff.

“You want it or should I assign it to someone else?”

“No, that’s great,” he says, trying to mask his disappointment. Perhaps he’ll leave a decent tip. “Looking forward to it.”

“Okay. His name’s Mycroft Holmes. He’ll meet you at River Run Lodge at nine on Monday.”

“Great, thanks much.”

He doesn’t recognise the last name, but he could be one of the minor royals. They get them every few years, ever since Princess Diana showed up and brought the sprogs. He does a quick search on the internet but comes up empty-handed. Probably for the best. Twisted knees might fall into the category of ‘Crimes against Queen and Country’.

Anyway, it’ll make a change from screaming kiddies.


	3. Chapter 3

The flight from London to Vancouver passes uneventfully. His parents watch whatever it is they show on the ‘in-flight entertainment’ these days, and Sherlock sleeps in the reclining cubicle seats they have in first class. He snores (albeit quietly), which Mycroft files away for later; you can never have too many embarrassing stories about a younger sibling. Too busy to sleep, he catches up on email and writes two reports. The ten-hour flight is almost as productive as a normal workday.

When they get to Immigration, Mycroft hands over his documents. He resists a smirk when they’re all immediately waved through without questions; heaven knows what flags are on his passport. Probably something along the lines of “Just smile and be nice and he won’t have you relocated to the Northwest Territories.” He makes a mental note to look it up later.

The air is damp (like London) and fresh (unlike London), and it’s a pleasant shock after spending so long in the low-humidity environment of the plane. He’s tired and stiff from the flight; it’s past midnight by his body clock and he can’t wait to collapse into bed. It’s a solid two-hour drive to Whistler from here, and suddenly the helicopter charter doesn’t seem like as much of an extravagance as it had when they booked it.

As they fly over Vancouver, the lights of the skyscrapers twinkle in the water. Then it goes dark, and the moonlight reflecting off the watery highway of Howe Sound gives the only hint of the landscape below. He’s heard it’s stunning and wishes he could see it during the day.

They fly over a couple of small towns and then the clustered lights of Whistler Village come into view. It’s less of a ‘village’ and more of a conglomeration of high-end shops and hotels—and world-class ski runs—very few of which he’ll be using if he spends all of his time on the beginner slope. Why had he agreed to come? Oh, right. Because Mummy and the Queen had decided he would. Wonderful. He touches the laptop bag sitting next to him for reassurance. At least he’ll be able to get some work done in his down time.

When they get to the hotel, there’s a mix-up with the rooms. His mother has booked two suites. Two.

“I’m not sharing a bedroom with Sherlock. This is supposed to be a holiday, not an exercise in torture.”

“It’s not a room, dear, it’s a suite. Two bedrooms with a living room and a kitchen.”

“Then I’m not spending a week in the same _suite_ as him, either.” He knows he sounds like a sulky teenager but he doesn’t care. Looking at the flustered receptionist, he says, “Do you have any one-bedroom suites available? Cost isn’t an issue.”

She types on her computer and frowns. “I’m really sorry. It’s high season, and the only one we have is in the other building. It’s just next door, if that’s okay.”

“That’ll be fine, thank you.” He shoots Sherlock a victorious grin and his mother rolls her eyes.

“Planning on doing some _socialising_ this week?”

His brother’s innuendo isn’t remotely concealed and he feels his cheeks flush. “That has nothing to do with it. I need to get some work done.”

“But Mikey, we won’t even see you, and I thought it would be nice for you two to spend some time together.”

Mummy looks genuinely disappointed, but he soldiers on, unbowed. “You won’t see me during the day anyway, seeing as I’ll be stuck on the beginner slopes _by myself.”_ All right, perhaps he’s a little bitter. “But I’ll join you in the evenings, where Sherlock can entertain us all with his scathing wit and tales of slope-side adventure. It’ll be family togetherness as imagined by Walt Disney himself.”

The receptionist looks alarmed by his little speech and Sherlock stifles a giggle. Mummy’s shoulders droop and she shakes her head. With a resigned smile, she says, “We’ll take the three suites, please.”

The receptionist confirms that his instructor will meet him at nine and then asks if that’s too early. With a small laugh, he assures her it isn’t. He’ll likely be up by three a.m., his body still eight hours ahead on London time. It’s a good thing there isn’t any of Sherlock’s ‘socialising’ on his agenda—he’d probably sleep right through it.


	4. Chapter 4

He’d been too tired to examine the suite the night before; he’d collapsed onto the soft bed with its high-thread-count sheets and dreamed about paperwork. Always paperwork.

It’s six a.m. and still pitch black outside when he wakes up, and he uses the time to take in his surroundings. The design aesthetic is ‘upscale wilderness lodge’—with the emphasis thankfully placed on tasteful leather furniture and not on mounted animal heads and musty smells.

The living room is huge. Stone fireplace. Very romantic. It’s too bad he won’t need the ambience. He spares a quick glance at the full-sized kitchen. Adequate. Dining room and extra loo: noted.

More interesting is the small room off to the side, containing only a sofa and a television. He thinks for a moment and decides it’s a cell for rambunctious children. The glass-paned door allows for observation while the parents have a badly needed stiff drink. He smiles, glad he doesn’t have to deal with that issue, and puts his ski gear in there so it doesn’t clutter up the main space.

He wanders out onto the snowy balcony, where steam rises from a glowing outdoor pool. Another thing he won’t need, but it’s pretty. He scans the rest of the windows for signs of life, but it looks like he’s the only one awake. Sherlock will probably sleep half the day if no one wakes him up; his sleeping schedule defies time zones.

His grumbling stomach reminds him that it’s long past breakfast time in London, and he wishes there was something to eat. On a whim, he checks the fridge and is surprised to find it stocked with breakfast essentials. He makes himself some scrambled eggs and toast, and—God bless the Canadians—proper tea. There’s even an electric kettle.

Sitting down with his laptop and tea, he finishes two solid hours of work before he takes a shower. In hindsight, leaving only fifteen minutes to dress might have been poor planning. He can put on an immaculate three-piece suit in seven minutes (when necessary, although what a travesty to have to do so), but the ski gear is unfamiliar and odd.

The merino wool thermals are the worst. They cling to his body in ways that remind him of the last time he went to the ballet. They do show off his legs quite nicely—not that he’d ever admit to noticing that sort of thing—but they leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. It’s the only time he can remember being thankful that the cold will ‘shrink his assets’. At least they’re comfortable.

There’s nothing between his thermals and his outer layer, but the woman at the shop had promised he’d be warm enough, and it’s not as if he’ll be parading around without his ski pants on. Still, it would be nice to have something there just for modesty’s sake.

He pulls on the coat and ski pants with a frown. He’s been assured they’re ’technical’—waterproof, breathable, able to withstand a hurricane—but he wouldn’t be caught dead in them at home. They make a ‘shush-ing’ sound when he walks. It’s horrifying.

He leaves the painful-looking boots for last. He approaches them with a mixture of fear and disgust, remembering how unpleasant they’d been at the ski shop. He can’t get the damned things on right. The levers are adjustable, but he’s afraid he’ll make them worse.

It’s humiliating, and frustrating, and five minutes to nine. Bugger.

He eventually gives up and leaves the top two levers open. Perhaps his instructor can show him what he’s doing wrong. He gathers up the rest of his stuff and finds—between the goggles, gloves, helmet, skis, and poles—he’s lacking at least three hands. By the time he gets to the lobby, he’s dropped the poles twice and feels as though he should learn to juggle.

He’s frustrated and irritated, and he hasn’t even set foot on the snow. It doesn’t bode well. He’d rather be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Even—God help him—the beach.

Except there’s this gorgeous man in a bright yellow ski jacket positively _beaming_ at him.

“Mr Holmes?” he says, in an unexpectedly English accent.

His jacket says ‘Whistler-Blackcomb Ski School’, so there’s no doubting who he is, although he’d be equally happy with ‘gorgeous stalker’ (although then he’d be forced to find out which government he’s working for, because no one else knows he’s here).

“Call me Mycroft, please,” he says, smiling awkwardly as one of his gloves makes a suicide plunge to the floor from its place in his helmet.

“Greg Lestrade. Call me Greg.” His infectious smile defuses Mycroft’s irritation in an instant. “Here, let me help you with those.” He takes the skis and poles and sets them on the floor. “They have a ski valet here—they should have taken care of that for you. I’m really sorry.”

“Oh, it’s fine. I’m not sure what to do with it all. I’ve never done this before.”

“Don’t worry about it. That’s why I’m here.” Greg glances at his Mycroft’s boots. “Let’s work on those first.”

He smiles, embarrassed but relieved that Greg isn’t mocking him. “Thanks. I couldn’t get them closed.”

“They’re probably adjusted wrong. They’re likely to take your fingers off if they’re too tight.” He adjusts them, showing Mycroft what he’s doing, and they snap into place. “How’s your circulation? Too tight around your calves?”

“They’re… not loose.”

“Well, if you start going numb, let me know.”

Mycroft can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

They head outside into the crisp morning air. The gondola to the top of the mountain is right next to the hotel, and they skip the snaking line of people and go to the head of the queue, with a gondola car all to themselves instead of sharing one with eight other people.

“Ski school perks,” Greg says with a grin. “I’m quite chuffed to be giving a private lesson. Most days, I get stuck with the sprogs.” Then he catches himself. “Er, the kiddies. Children. Not that I mind. The youth program is excellent.”

“You’re a braver man than I.”

“Nah. When they’re interested, they’re fun to teach—no fear whatsoever. They’ll go bombing down the mountain like you wouldn’t believe. I suppose they don’t know what they can break.”

Mycroft’s smile falters, and Greg winces.

“Sorry. Not that you’ll break anything. Really. You’ll be fine.”

“So,” Mycroft says, desperate to change the subject, “you’re not Canadian?” He’d put Greg’s accent somewhere from the southwest of England.

“Can’t slip anything by you,” he says good-naturedly. “Weston-super-Mare. Ever heard of it?”

Mycroft laughs—it’s a well-known seaside town on the west coast of England. “Of course. Horrible about the pier fire.”

“Yeah. They did a nice job rebuilding it though.”

“What are you doing all the way out here?”

“Long story.” His gaze drops to his shoes and he changes the subject. “How about you? Where are you from?”

“Wiltshire, originally, but now I live in London.”

“What brings you to Canada? Long way for a holiday.”

“Enforced merriment.”

The confused look on Greg’s face is priceless. “Sorry?”

“A mandatory family holiday. Normally I can avoid these things, but this year fate conspired against me.” The word ‘fate’ sounds far better than ‘Mummy and the Queen’.

“They already know how to ski, then?”

“They learned on one of the holidays I avoided, I’m afraid, so now it’s just me on the beginner’s slope.”

“Well, at least I get you all to myself,” Greg says, and the smile that goes with it makes Mycroft warmer than any of his merino wool.

Is Greg _flirting?_

It must be his jet-lagged imagination. Or some ground-laying for a hefty tip. It certainly feels like he’s flirting, and he’s not used to that. Sherlock’s the one who gets all the compliments. It’s all a bit heady.

He belatedly remembers Greg has said something and fumbles for the thread of conversation. “Mm. And I’m here for a whole week. Lucky you.”

Judging by Greg’s smile, he doesn’t treat the comment as sarcasm.

The gondola crests what Mycroft had thought was the top of the mountain, and he stares with amazement at the view. The village is laid out below them, but mountain just continues _up_. They’re nowhere near the top.

Greg chuckles; he’s obviously seen this reaction before. “It’s another ten minutes to the top. Gorgeous, yeah?”

Mycroft nods, still staring at it in wonder. He’s never been to the Alps or any other mountains like this, and nothing has prepared him for this sort of scale.

“The lesson area’s at the mid-station, but we can ride to the top and look around if you’d like. It’s a good day for the view.”

He nods. “That’d be lovely.” The weather is amazing, with an intensely blue sky of the sort he rarely sees in England. He wishes he’d brought sunscreen, but who takes sunscreen on a ski holiday?

Greg takes some out of his pocket like he’s a magician with a mind-reading act. “Do you need some? Don’t want to get a goggle tan.”

“In my case, I think it would be a goggle burn,” Mycroft replies wryly, as they both smear it on their faces. He can’t imagine Greg’s lightly tanned skin with a traditional English sunburn.

“Don’t worry about being too thorough. Your helmet will cover most of it up.”

With a sickening feeling, he remembers the helmet. The charcoal-grey Grapefruit of Humiliation.

Greg catches his expression. “Don’t worry. Everyone looks like an idiot wearing one, but only idiots don’t.”

Mycroft’s mouth curls into a wicked grin.

“What?”

“Well, the rest of my family didn’t see the need for them…”

Greg groans and looks like he’s eaten some bad shellfish. “God, I’m so sorry. I need to keep my mouth shut—”

“No offence taken, don’t worry.” He smiles and Greg seems to relax a little.

“It’s just… I see a lot of concussions. Even being a good skier doesn’t help if someone blindsides you bombing down a hill.”

He hadn’t considered that. He’ll mention it to Sherlock—perhaps the threat of brain injury would be enough to make him spoil his immaculate curls. “Well,” he says lightly, “you have to promise not to laugh too hard when you see me wearing it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The gondola ends next to a ski lodge. It isn’t at the top of the mountain, but it’s close. The actual peak is a little farther away—some intrepid souls ski down it on what looks like an almost vertical face—and all around them people pole by on skis or carry their snowboards to the tops of ski runs. The scenery, all of it, is breathtaking.

Mycroft points at the hulking mountain across the valley. Ski runs cut through its forested flanks like water droplets running down a car window. “Is that Blackcomb?”

“Mm. Did you know it has a glacier—you can ski on it in the summer.”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope. Professional athletes come here to train on it—the ones who don’t go to Chile, anyway.”

“Amazing.”

Greg gestures in front of them. “There’s more of Whistler off behind that rise. Multiple bowls out along the ridges.”

“I don’t suppose they have any beginner runs up here?” he asks with a small laugh, as if the question is ridiculous.

“Quite a few. If you do well with the basics, we can definitely ski some of them.”

He beams. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

They wander around a little longer, and Greg shows him some of the views from the lodge. Mountain ranges. Long-dead volcanoes. All of them snow-covered and peaceful. Unlike the lodge, which—although snow-covered—is a boisterous madhouse.

His expression must be pained because Greg grins and says, “It’s even worse at lunch. Want to head out?” 

They take the gondola back down to mid-mountain where the ski school operates. A few adults pick their way down the slope with an instructor nearby, but children make up the bulk of the students. Noisy, rambunctious children. He doesn’t know how Greg does it.

“Don’t worry; I’ll bet we can go up on the mountain by mid-afternoon.”

Mycroft wishes he shared Greg’s confidence.

* * *

Greg isn’t sure what type of person he was expecting for his private client, but it isn’t Mycroft. Perhaps a young investment banker or something like that—someone aggressive and eager, not nervous and fumbling with his ski equipment like a juggling act gone bad.

He’d sulked all day Sunday at the thought of butting heads with an arrogant tosser, but he likes him as soon as they meet. He’s even attractive, in an unconventional sort of way. He hasn’t been this excited about work in a long time.


	5. Chapter 5

They don’t make it up the mountain that afternoon.

He doesn’t even make it down the beginner’s slope.

He tries—how many times is it now?—to make a competent turn, and ends up on his arse. Again. One of his boots pops out of its binding as he falls, saving his knee some pain, but now he has to get it back into place. It’s a frustrating process, and he wants to throttle the annoying little five-year-olds gleefully whizzing by him.

Greg tries to help, but Mycroft raises his hands to stop him. He needs to get the hang of this on his own.

At least he’s mastered slowing down and stopping. Well, ‘mastered’ might be a little strong, but he can do it when he needs to. But he can’t get the hang of turning, no matter how many times Greg tries to show him. The frustration makes him want to scream. He doesn’t, of course. He’s never screamed in his life. He settles for a low growl of intense exasperation and Greg backs away a few inches. Mycroft sits there with his eyes closed and regulates his breathing until he calms down. “I’m sorry,” he says levelly. “I’m wasting your time with this.”

“Don’t be silly. Here, let’s give it another go. Do the wedge again and take more of your weight on your left leg when you turn.”

He ends up with crossed skis and twists his knee as he goes down. He cries out in pain.

Greg is next to him immediately, unlocking his bindings and helping him to his feet. “God, are you okay?”

Mycroft grimaces and tries to smile. “I think I’m going to call it a day, if it’s all the same with you.

Greg helps him hobble back to the gondola and they ride down to the lodge, where he carries Mycroft’s gear back to the room. His face is full of concern.

“So you’ll ice that like we talked about, yeah? Twenty minutes at a time.”

Mycroft nods.

He takes a bottle of ibuprofen from his coat and hands a few to Mycroft. “Take these after dinner. They’ll help the swelling.”

“Look, I’m sorry this was such a disaster. I suppose I should have started when I was younger.”

“Don’t be silly. You’ll get the hang of it. Is there anything else I can get you?”

“No, I’ll be fine, thanks.”

“See you tomorrow then?”

He smiles and nods, but there’s not much conviction behind it. He wants to be alone with his humiliation. He’s never been so _awful_ at anything before, and it stings.

“Right, then. Tomorrow, downstairs. Your knee should feel a lot better in the morning.”

With that, he’s gone, and Mycroft collapses on the sofa, still wearing all his gear. After a few minutes of feeling sorry for himself, he gets up. When he takes off his helmet, his hair looks like something from an 80s New Wave band. He pulls his fingers through it, trying to tame it into some sort of order, but he’s only partially successful.

He peels off his various layers, but he’s not sure what to do with them. They’re damp. It’s frankly a little disgusting. In an effort to dry them out, he spreads them around the spare room—a shrine of wet ski gear commemorating his failure on the slopes.

He wonders why anyone thinks this is a sexy sport.

He takes a long, hot shower and changes into some dry clothes, then he stretches out on the sofa with some ice on his knee and tries to answer some email. He’s been at it for about an hour when Sherlock stops by.

“How was your—”

Then Sherlock sees the ice pack. “Oh. That good?”

“It was a disaster. I don’t know why I let her talk me into this. How was your day?”

“Amazing. We went out to Harmony Bowl. The scenery was spectacular.” He has the decency to look slightly apologetic for his enthusiasm. “I’m sure it’ll go better tomorrow.”

Mycroft grumbles under his breath.

“We’re going out to dinner at seven. A Japanese place.”

“I’m really not in the mood. I’ll get room service. Send them my love.”

“You make it sound like you’re going on a one-way suicide mission. Don’t blame me if she comes by prying later. You know what she’s like.”

“All too well.”

Miraculously, she doesn’t. They leave him alone for the entire evening and he finishes a decent amount of work. But although his knee feels better, his pride is still sulking in the corner. He scans the internet for early flights back to London, but there’s nothing left in first class and flying in coach would be a nightmare. Besides, she’d kill him if he left early.

When Greg shows up tomorrow, he’ll simply explain that it’s all been a terrible mistake and cancel the rest of the week. As much as he’s enjoyed spending time around Greg, he can’t bear the thought of being humiliated again.


	6. Chapter 6

His knee feels much better the next morning, and he’s almost sorry he can’t use it as an excuse for being a spineless coward. With a resigned sigh, he heads down to the lobby dressed in his normal clothes.

Greg stands near the window with two Starbucks cups. When he turns around and sees him, his face falls. “What’s wrong? Is your knee still bothering you?”

He wants to lie and say yes, but there’s a whole week in front of them and that excuse won’t last forever. It’ll just postpone the inevitable.

“No, it’s a lot better, thanks. I…” He should have thought this out more. Prepared for questions. “I’m sorry. This is wasting your time. I’m never going to get the hang of this, and five more days of falling down doesn’t sound very appealing. You should take the rest of the week off. I won’t tell the company.”

Greg opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. He looks hurt, as if Mycroft just slapped him.

“I’m really sorry. It’s not you. I’m just not cut out for this sort of thing.”

Greg holds out one of the cups like an olive branch and gives him a pained smile. “I brought you tea. With milk.”

Mycroft feels like he’s just kicked a puppy. He takes the tea and smiles. “Thank you. I could use some.”

“Here, sit down.”

They both take a spot on the sofa, and he stares intently at his tea. When Greg touches his knee, trying to be friendly, Mycroft jumps and nearly spills it. Thank God for lids. Greg pulls his hand away and pretends it didn’t happen.

“If you don’t want to do it, of course you don’t have to, but I think you’re being too hard on yourself. You mastered going straight and stopping—”

Mycroft quirks a tiny smile at the mention of ‘going straight’.

“—which is no small feat. And I’ve never had an adult manage turns on the first day. Not once.”

“But those bloody kids make it look so easy.”

“They’re kids. The same rules don’t apply.”

Mycroft risks a look at Greg, and his expression is as kind and sincere as his words. He’d come downstairs expecting thinly veiled scorn or anger, not this.

“Tell you what. If you give it another go, I’ll buy you a hot cocoa at the lodge. They make it with whipped cream and they’ll spike it with Kahlúa if you want. There’s nothing like it after a day on the snow.”

There’s that smile again, and his defences melt. He thinks the cocoa sounds awful—too sweet for his tastes—but a drink with Greg, even an awful drink, might make up for this disastrous holiday. Before he can stop himself, he blurts out, “Is this a ‘get it in a paper cup and ride down the gondola’ type of drink, or a ‘sit in a chair and look at the scenery and laugh at my pathetic attempts at skiing’ type of drink?”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he regrets them. He’s just made an arse of himself and backed Greg into a corner. Even if it’s a corner with a nice view.

“It’s your call,” Greg says, “but sitting down is a lot more civilised. But I’d never make fun of your skiing.”

 _He’s just being nice. It’s not a date._ But he can’t stop smiling anyway. All of a sudden, the ski slope doesn’t seem so terrifying. “All right. But I’ll have to go and change.”

“Really? I thought you were wearing that. I hear it’s the new trend in ski wear.”

Mycroft laughs, his dread about the impending lesson gone. “I’ll try to be quick.” 

* * *

Greg stares at his cup of tea, trying to make sense of what just happened. He hadn’t expected that to work. He hadn’t expected Mycroft to be so _enthusiastic_ about a cup of cocoa.

 _Motivation_ , he thinks, trying not to examine his own motivations too closely. _Inviting him for a drink is motivation to keep him skiing and nothing else._

Greg repeats it a few more times in his head, just to convince himself. It has nothing to do with wanting to spend more time with Mycroft. He just doesn’t want to lose him as a client. His reputation as a ski instructor is on the line.

That’s definitely it.

He feels bad for their disastrous first day. It has to be rough learning to ski at forty; once you get out of your twenties, every fall hurts more than it should. And he’s not lying about getting the hang of turning—no one ever does at first.

His job is all about motivation, and he buggered it up yesterday. He hopes he can redeem himself, and if he has to bribe him with cocoa, so be it.

He’s certainly not going to break rules number one and three. That would be nuts.

* * *

They head back up to the beginner hill, and by lunchtime he’s making turns like a pro. Or at least like a five-year-old. No, the little brats are still better than he is. But he’s turning.

Greg stays right next to him as he makes his way down the short slope. “Lean harder into the turn this time.” His suggestion is accompanied by a light touch to Mycroft’s thigh. His breath catches, and his knees—already a little tired from skiing—go weak for an entirely different reason. He’s not sure if Greg means anything by it or not. No one in England would touch someone so casually, but maybe Greg’s been away long enough to unlearn that sort of etiquette.

This is the second time Greg’s touched him. Not that he’s counting.

It happens again later, when Greg shows him how to hold his pole correctly. He tries not to smirk as the innuendo sinks in. His mind is in the gutter, like he’s fifteen again. All his thoughts about ‘pole-holding’ leave him flustered and distracted, and the next turn ends with him on his arse. Greg offers him a hand and pulls him to his feet, and Mycroft can’t meet his eyes or he’ll blush, and _bloody hell_ , when did he become a lovestruck teenager? It’s ludicrous.

“You okay?”

Mycroft laughs nervously. “Yeah, just lost my concentration.” Greg gives him an easy smile and thankfully says nothing about poles for the next ten minutes. It gives him a chance to regain his composure and stop acting like an idiot.

They take a quick break for lunch—the lodge is a nightmare of people and chaos—and get back to it. The afternoon goes even better and time flies by. Before he knows it, it’s three o’clock.

“How are your feet doing?”

“Not bad, considering.”

“Yeah, ‘ratcheted into hard plastic shells’ is never optimal. I was thinking…”

“Hm?”

“Well, if you want, we could try taking the run back down to the village. Instead of the gondola.”

He tries not to panic. The idea of being on a ski run _with other people_ terrifies him. “I… um.” His way with words abandons him. He blinks. After a few more seconds, he manages, “Are you sure I’m ready for that?”

“Yeah, as long as your legs aren’t too tired, you should be fine. It’s dead straight and you just point it and go. It’s not much steeper than this.”

He frowns, considering it. The village doesn’t look that far away. He’s just thinking they’d end up in the wrong place for cocoa when Greg does his mind-reading act again.

“—then we can take the gondola back up to the top so I can buy you a drink.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he looks horrified. “Er, sorry. So we can get the cocoa I promised you. That came out wrong.”

 _That’s a crying shame._ The first one had sounded a lot more like a date.

The ski run, rather than being one of the vertical faces he’d seen earlier, is more of a meandering road to the base. True to Greg’s word, it’s fairly sedate, and the experience isn’t as terrifying as he’d expected. They arrive at the bottom in one piece, but his feet and calves are killing him.

As they take off their skis, Greg notices him wince. “Feet hurt?”

“They’re fine,” he says, trying to convince himself.

“Let’s try that as a statement. Your feet hurt.”

“Well, when you put it like that, yes.” Greg has clearly seen the Wince of Sore Feet before and isn’t fooled.

“We should get you out of those boots. You’ll feel a lot better. We can do the drink some other time if you’d like.”

 _God, no._ He wonders if Greg is trying to get out of it, but he’s not going to let the matter drop that easily. “Would you mind waiting for me to put some shoes on?” As he takes his helmet off, he feels his hair sticking up in all directions and adds, “and, er, do something about this?”

“Yeah, sure,” Greg says with a smile. When he takes off his helmet, the soft spikes of his grey hair look perfect. He runs his hand through it self-consciously, which only makes him more endearing. “You don’t mind me looking a mess?”

“That’s not exactly how I’d put it,” Mycroft says, hoping it sounds like the flirty compliment he intends.

“Here, give me your gear. I’ll have them put it away for you. I’ll wait in the lobby, yeah?”

“Great. I’ll be down in a few minutes.” He tries to hurry, but hurrying in ski boots—let alone running—is a dodgy proposition at best, so he settles for a brisk _thunk_ along the hallway that now seems impossibly long.

Back in his room, he flips off the ratchets with a sigh of relief. The renewed blood flow to his feet only makes them hurt more, but that’s not about to stop him. He runs a comb through his hair, considers changing his clothes, decides against it, and hurries back down to the lobby. Shoes have never, ever, felt so good.

Greg’s back is turned and he’s warming his hands by the lobby fireplace, and Mycroft shamelessly appreciates the view as he walks up. Even slightly baggy ski pants can’t hide his gorgeous arse, well-toned from many days of skiing. Greg turns around and Mycroft’s eyes snap up to his face, heart pounding a little at getting caught looking.

If he notices, he doesn’t say anything, just greets him with another smile. “All set?”

Mycroft nods. “What happened to your gear?”

“They put it in a locker for me. Instructor perks.”

They take the gondola back up to the peak. By the time they get there, the sun is low in the sky; soon it’ll be dipping behind the mountains. The lodge is a world away from its earlier chaos; a few people sit in chairs by the large picture windows. The slopes are empty now, the rest of the ski lifts having closed about an hour earlier.

Greg stops by the bar and orders two cocoas. “Do you want some Kahlúa in yours?”

Figuring it won’t be any worse than the dessert-like concoction it already promises to be, he says, “Sure.” He doesn’t remember the last time he drank any sort of liqueur. Normally he’d scoff at the idea, but it can’t hurt to try something new. Besides, it would be rude to refuse.

Greg hands him a ceramic mug with a large swirl of whipped cream on top. And chocolate shavings. If there’s cocoa in there, he can’t see it. To his horror, he notices there’s no straw. He’s not sure how he’s going to drink this without getting the cream all over his face. The only saving grace is that he’ll get to watch Greg drink his like that as well.

He expects them to head over to the windows, but Greg heads up a stairwell to a proper restaurant he hadn’t even realised was there. The hostess recognises him.

“Oh, hey Greg. Bit early for dinner, isn’t it?”

“Just here for the view,” he says, motioning at their drinks. “That okay?”

“Sure, no problem. You know where to find it.”

The restaurant looks expensive but it’s mostly empty at the moment. Greg heads to the bar area, where comfy seats surround low tables, and amazing views steal the attention from anything a chef could concoct.

“Nice, huh?”

“It’s gorgeous.”

“Yeah. I’ve been here for years and the view never gets old.”

He wonders again what brought Greg to Canada but isn’t going to ask. “I’ve seen some impressive scenery before, but this is amazing.”

“It’s supposed to snow a bit tonight, and it looks even better with a layer of fresh powder. If you have a camera, you should bring it up tomorrow.”

“We’re coming up here to ski?”

“If you want, yeah. You did well enough on the run today that I think you can handle it. It’s a lot prettier than the beginner area.”

That gives him pause. He can’t even see the village from here. Just the idea of skiing all the way down is exhausting.

“Don’t worry, it’s not one long run. They go down for a bit, then you ride lifts back up. Then we take the gondola down at the end of the day.”

“Oh. That doesn’t sound too bad.”

“I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t think you could do it,” he says, flashing him a lovely smile.

Mycroft reminds himself that this is ‘Greg keeping a client happy’ and not ‘a date’. He wonders if Greg’s vague flirting is just part of his personality. Perhaps it is. He really hopes it’s not.

Greg picks up his cocoa and unabashedly slurps a large dollop of whipped cream off the top. Without thinking, Mycroft stares—he can’t take his eyes off his mouth—and is horrified when Greg catches him.

He doesn’t seem to mind. “Come on,” he goads, “you know you want to.” He grins and slurps at his drink again.

Mycroft takes a tentative, almost dainty mouthful of whipped cream off the top of his drink.

“Wait ’til you get to the actual cocoa,” he teases.

He tries to take a sip but has to slurp off more cream so he won’t get it all over his nose. But then he tastes the cocoa, and Greg’s right. It’s not just good, it’s _really_ good. The Kahlúa adds a nice coffee-flavoured kick, and the sweetness hits the spot after the day’s intense exercise. He settles back into his chair with a contented sigh.

“See? Nothing like it.”

“It’s delicious. Not normally what I’d drink, but then I’ve never spent a whole day out in the snow before.”

“You did really well out there today. I’m glad you decided to come up.”

“Me, too,” he says, meaning it. He’d have spent the day hunched over his computer, regretting the lack of Greg’s company.

He isn’t sure what to talk about. It doesn’t seem appropriate to ask him about his personal life. Work, then. “How long have you been an instructor?”

Greg squints, counting in his head. “About fifteen years now? Yeah, I suppose it’s coming up on that.” He looks conflicted for a second, as if debating whether to share more, but he changes the subject. “How long’s your holiday?”

“We leave on Sunday. I can’t take more than a week off work.”

“Let me guess—too busy running the world?”

He’s startled by how close Greg is to the truth and tries not to let it show. Forcing a laugh, he says, “Something like that.”

“What sort of work do you do?”

“Like you said—I run the world. If I told you, I’d have to shoot you.”

“Ah,” Greg says breezily, “probably best if you don’t tell me then.”

“Mm. You’re far too nice.”

“Do a lot of shooting?”

Mycroft smiles. “No, none. I’m just a minor government official; not much call for shootings in amongst the paperwork.”

“Glad to hear it. I’d hate to get put on a government hit list for taking you down a dodgy ski slope.”

“I think you’re safe.”

There’s an awkward pause as they both try to find something to discuss. Neither of them wants to talk about work, so they both admire the view. Intently.

Greg finally takes another sip of his drink, and Mycroft subconsciously mirrors him. Then Greg breaks the silence. “So, how old are your kids?”

Mycroft narrowly misses spraying him with hot cocoa as he tries to contain his surprise. “Sorry?”

Greg’s eyes go wide with horror. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have… um, I saw your ring, and you said you were here with your family. Look, I should know better than to bring up personal stuff. Please, forget I said anything.”

“No, no, it’s fine. It’s just that no one has ever asked me if I have children before. They’re not really my area.”

“Your… area?

“They terrify me.”

Greg chuckles. “That’s fair.”

“I’m here with my parents and brother.”

“Ah.” Greg’s eyes flick towards his ring finger again, re-evaluating.

He can almost see the possibilities rolling through his mind. _Widowed? Family trip? Unhappy marriage?_ He decides to put him out of his misery and also put himself on the line. No risk, no reward.

“It’s a family heirloom. I don’t have a partner.” He uses the term deliberately. Most straight men would say ‘I’m not married’ or ‘I don’t have a wife’, and he wants to see Greg’s reaction. See if Greg is flirting with him or if he’s just being friendly.

And he gets what he’d hoped for—that flash of recognition and an open smile.

“Yeah, me either.”

A warm, happy glow suffuses him. It’s always tricky, putting the sexuality thing out there. You can’t walk up to someone and say, “Hello, I’m gay. Are you?” Well, you can, but not if you’re English. Not if you’re Mycroft. And ‘partner’ is the closest thing to a code word the queer community has.

Neither of them says anything more about it—they change the subject to the beauty of the late afternoon light on the trees—but it brings an ease to their conversation that wasn’t there before. And every now and then, he catches Greg looking at him with intense curiosity.


	7. Chapter 7

As they’re walking back to Mycroft’s hotel, even his comfortable shoes can’t ease the soreness in his lower legs. He fears he’s walking like he has a stick up his arse and makes an effort not to tread so carefully.

“Legs still bothering you?”

So much for that. He laughs it off saying, “I’m sure they’ll be fine in the morning.”

“You should massage them before you go to bed tonight and take some more ibuprofen. It’ll make a huge difference. I’m sure the place you’re staying has a few massage therapists on call.”

He can’t think of anything more mortifying than being splayed out half-naked on a table under the eyes and hands of a complete stranger. “Er, no. I’ll be fine. Thanks, though.”

“Never had a massage, eh?” Greg says, with a half-smile. “Don’t worry; it’s not _that_ sort of a massage.”

Mycroft blushes—he wasn’t even thinking about sexual massage. Of course now he is, and that’s worse.

“It’s sports massage. Deep tissue.” He pauses for a second, considering something. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I can show you the basics of doing your legs so you can do them yourself.”

He’s torn. The idea of Greg working his hands over his sore calves sounds appealing on more than one level. Too appealing. They’re almost at the hotel now and the silence is dragging out; he needs to say something.

He tries to rationalise it: he’s on holiday; Greg is gorgeous and funny; it’d be impolite to turn down his kind offer. Perhaps it’s the shot of Kahlúa that gives him courage, but it’s more likely years of accumulated loneliness. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

Greg frowns. “Is that a ‘Thank you, yes’ or a ‘Thank you, no’?”

He laughs nervously. “Sorry. It’s a yes. If you don’t mind, that is. I wouldn’t want to put you out.” He should shut up before his stupid English politeness retracts it completely.

“Brilliant. Don’t worry, I promise I won’t do anything inappropriate,” he teases, his eyes bright.

Damn.

As they walk into the suite, Greg’s eyes go wide.

Mycroft frowns, wondering if he’d left his pyjamas on the dining room table or something equally embarrassing. “What?”

“It’s just… wow. I’ve never been in one of these before. Very nice.”

“Even better when not shared with an annoying sibling.”

Greg looks around nervously as if he expects someone to pop up from behind the sofa.

“Don’t worry; I dodged that bullet. If I’m going to be dragged on holiday, I refuse to share a room with my little brother.”

“How much younger?”

“Seven years.”

“So that makes him, what, about twenty-three?” Greg says, with a completely straight face.

Mycroft laughs. “Flattery will get you everywhere. Try thirty-three.”

“Don’t worry; I’ve got you beat.”

“Really?” He’s amazed. He’d pegged Greg for at least a few years younger than he is.

“Yeah, by three years.” Then he adds cheekily, “I fool people with my youthful good looks and winning personality.”

“Well, I won’t disagree with that,” he says. Greg looks a little disconcerted and Mycroft changes the subject. “I suppose we can’t do it with these on?” He gestures at his ski pants.

“No. You’re wearing thermals, right? Those’ll be okay. Or some loose pyjamas would be even better. That way I can show you which muscle groups to work.”

Wearing thermals for a massage from an attractive man might not be the best idea. In fact, it’s a horrible idea. “I’ve got some pyjama bottoms in the bedroom. Make yourself at home.”

He puts them on and decides his shirt is too tight as well. What had he been thinking when he agreed to this? He panics, wondering what he can wear. Pyjama tops send the wrong message; he’s not getting ready for bed. God, no. But the thermals are almost as bad as walking out there with nothing on, for all they leave to the imagination. In desperation, he throws on the hotel bathrobe.

“Do they have any of those little bottles of hand lotion in there?” Greg calls from the other room.

He brings one out with him, thankful when he doesn’t get an odd look about the robe.

“Super,” Greg says as he takes the lotion. “Makes it easier to do.”

Mycroft thinks of something else that’s easier to do with hand lotion and then tries hard _not_ to think about it. The last thing he needs right now is an erection.

“Can I get you a drink?” The words are out of his mouth before he can think about the implications. It’s something he always asks a visitor—standard politeness—but in this context it sounds lewd.

“Only if you’re having something.”

Mycroft swallows. God knows he could use a drink. “I picked up some Scotch at the Duty Free. Or there’s tea and coffee. Or milk. Or water.” He’s babbling like an idiot.

“Scotch sounds great. Only if you want to, though. This won’t take long.”

He smiles and pours them two glasses. It’s passable enough, but not as good as he’s used to; he only picked it up in case of ‘family stress’.

Greg takes a sip and hums appreciatively. “Oh, this is nice. I should have known you’d have good taste.”

_And you’ve never even seen me in a suit._ He smiles, feeling more in his element than he has all week.

“All right. Let’s get your legs sorted, yeah?”

“How do you want me?” he says, then his eyes go wide as he realises how it sounds. Greg’s eyes go wide too, but neither of them is comfortable enough to acknowledge it, and the tension in the air gets positively weird.

_You should have laughed. Why didn’t you laugh?_

He’s thankful when Greg wants him on his stomach on the sofa, because somehow this seems easier without eye contact. And God forbid he end up with an erection or something. Not that he expects this to be sexual, but with Greg’s hands and full attention on him, it’s not beyond the realm of possibility.

Once Greg starts, he thinks the position might not save him after all—where are those embarrassing moans coming from? He tries to be more restrained, but as Greg kneads his thumbs on a particularly tight area, he sounds like a soundtrack from a bad porn film.

Greg chuckles. “That helping?”

It’s helping his legs, but it’s not helping his lascivious thoughts about Greg. “You’re really good with your hands,” he blurts out. He blushes as soon as he’s said it. Everything out of his mouth is laden with innuendo and he’s powerless to stop it.

“Thanks. I can’t believe you’re so tight.” There’s a pause then, as he realises what he’s said. And then he starts to laugh. And Mycroft starts laughing as well.

“Well,” Greg says, “that came out wrong.”

Mycroft turns on his side so he can see him. “Everything’s coming out wrong. I’m not trying to pick you up, I swear.”

“If you were, I doubt you’d be this blatant. And I mean that in a good way.”

The laughter defuses most of the tension, and Mycroft pushes himself up on one arm to take another sip of his drink.

“Oi, I’m not done with you yet. If you’re going to ski tomorrow, we have to get the knots worked out good and proper.”

“Where’d you learn how to do this?”

There’s a slight pause and he kicks himself for the question; he hadn’t meant to pry again. Greg doesn’t seem bothered though.

“If you spend a lot of time on the snow, you learn pretty quickly how to make your legs feel better. Doing it on other people isn’t much different.”

He wonders if that’s all of it. He’s spent long enough in government to know an evasive answer when he hears one. He lets it go—it’s really none of his business, after all—and lies back down to enjoy it. “Will you show me how to do it when you’re finished?”

“‘Course.”

Which is why, half an hour later, all hell breaks loose when there’s a knock at the door. Greg is sitting on the sofa with his ski pants off and his thermals bunched up to his knees. And Mycroft is in pyjamas and a dressing gown, sitting at Greg’s feet, looking ever so relaxed.

It’s all perfectly innocent—Greg is showing Mycroft how to push his thumbs into the muscle groups of his calf—but they both panic.

“You expecting someone?”

“No,” Mycroft says, then catches himself. “Oh, bugger. I forgot.” His calm vanishes and dread seeps into its place. “It’s either my brother or my parents. We’re supposed to go to dinner.”

Greg pales.

“Hold on.” He goes to answer the door, opening it only a crack. “Sherlock. I thought we were meeting later.”

Sherlock frowns when he sees the dressing gown. “It is ‘later’. Aren’t you a little underdressed for dinner? I know you’re trying for ‘casual’ this holiday, but this is a bit much.”

“I’m not ready yet. I’ll meet you there.”

In an unexpected move, Sherlock jams his foot against the door and pushes it open. His eyes light up when he sees Greg. “Oh, I didn’t know you were entertaining. It’d be rude not to introduce me.”

“Oh God, Sherlock,” he mutters, absolutely mortified and planning twenty different ways to kill him.

Sherlock walks in brandishing a grin that could terrify a shark. “I’m the brother. You must be the ski instructor.”

“Right. Sherlock, isn’t it? I’m Greg Lestrade.” He manages to seem relaxed. “How’d you know I’m his—”

Behind Sherlock’s back, Mycroft’s eyes go wide and he shakes his head in the universal signal of “Don’t.” The last thing he needs is one of Sherlock’s smug deductions at Greg’s expense. Probably something to do with faded goggle tan-lines or the make of his ski boots.

“It’s embroidered on your coat.”

That’s even worse because it’s so obvious. “Get out, Sherlock.”

“What interests me more is what you’re both doing half-dressed with a bottle of hand lotion.” There’s no mistaking the innuendo in his voice.

“Get. Out.” He grabs him by the shoulder and pushes him in the direction of the door. “And apologise.”

Sherlock turns back to Greg with a wicked grin. “Lovely to meet you, although I’m sure the pleasure is all Mycroft’s.”

“I’m going to bloody well murder you,” Mycroft hisses as he shoves him out the door.

“See you at dinner?” Sherlock says brightly.

Mycroft wants to slam the door in his face but he isn’t going to make a scene—well, not more of a scene than has already been made. He settles for an icy glare and closes the door without replying.

He turns around, absolutely mortified and dreading Greg’s reaction. “I am so incredibly sorry. I don’t even know where to start.”

To his amazement, Greg laughs. And keeps laughing. After a few seconds, the humour of the situation sinks in and Mycroft laughs too. By the time they finish, they’re gasping for air.

“I can’t decide if he’s obnoxious or brilliant,” Greg says.

“Both, I’m afraid. He is, without a doubt, the most annoying person on the planet.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far, but he might be in the top ten.” His easy smile and good humour about the situation are the only things that save Sherlock from an early death. “Younger siblings,” he adds with a shrug, “what can you do?”

“You see why I didn’t want to share a room.”

And Greg starts laughing again. Eventually it subsides into intermittent chuckling. “So you should get ready for dinner, yeah?”

Mycroft wrinkles his nose and sighs.

“Part of the Mandatory Family Holiday contract?” Greg offers.

“Something like that. I already skipped one dinner; if I miss two a row I get an Official Reprimand.”

Greg smiles. “Are they like Sherlock?”

“No. They’re relentlessly cheery about the most inane things, and my mother rules with a velvet-covered iron fist.”

“Sounds like a poorly conceived prosthetic. Not much dexterity.”

The off-the-wall remark pulls Mycroft out of his minor sulk and he starts to chuckle again. Although he’d much rather stay here with Greg, there’s really no getting out of dinner. “I’m sorry to cut this short.” He’s about to say how much he’s enjoyed himself when he remembers it’s supposed to be a massage therapy lesson and not a date. “Thanks for showing me the massage techniques.”

“My pleasure,” Greg says, looking like he means it. “Meet downstairs tomorrow at nine?”

“Of course.”

“Great. Don’t forget to bring your camera.”

* * *

Greg waits for the bus that will take him back to his flat. He has a car, but it doesn’t make sense to use it in the village; parking is expensive and impossible to find. He slips his phone out of his coat to check the time. The bus is late (as usual), but he doesn’t even care; he’s still trying to figure out what just happened. This has to be the weirdest ski lesson he’s ever given.

And Mycroft Holmes is one of the most interesting people he’s ever met.

And yet, he’s not. He doesn’t know much about him as a person; the details about his job were vague and hand-wavy, and he doesn’t seem to have a lot of hobbies, but he finds him fascinating. Not to mention his family, who seem absolutely barmy, at least if his brother is anything to go by. Perhaps there’s something to the ‘eccentric rich’ stereotype after all. Or maybe they just have enough money that people let them get away with whatever they want.

But the surprising revelation about Mycroft’s sexuality, especially from someone so reticent about other parts of his life, points towards a sort of loneliness. He understands that well enough. Whistler isn’t the sort of place someone his age can carry on a proper relationship, and pulling tourists is desperation at its worst. Unless it’s Pride Week, when the whole place becomes one giant orgy and no one cares what goes on.

And he’s not trying to get laid, because that would be unprofessional and tacky and stupid. But God help him, everything they say sounds like dialogue from a porn film, and there’s this weird tension between them that makes his toes curl and he’s having _fun_ for a change. He can have that, right? They’re adults.

He wonders if Mycroft already knows about his past. He keeps asking, but maybe he’s just being conversational.

* * *

Mycroft meets them at the restaurant—Italian, Sherlock’s choice—and immediately wishes they’d gone almost anywhere else. Most of the patrons are couples who look disgustingly in love, and it reminds him he could still be back at the room with Greg.

No. That’s wishful thinking. It was not a date.

Sherlock, however, begs to differ. They don’t even have their appetisers before he starts his relentless assault on Mycroft’s sanity.

“We might not be seeing much of Mycroft this week. I stopped by to pick him up for dinner, and he was having drinks with his ski instructor. Half-dressed.”

Everything happens at once.

“Mycroft!” That’s his mother, looking every bit as horrified as she sounds.

“Sherlock!” That’s him, simultaneously trying to kill his brother with his mind.

And a vigorous coughing noise, as his father chokes on a breadstick and hastily chases it with some wine.

Sherlock sits back and surveys the damage with a smug grin.

“What are you? Five?” Mycroft asks, furious. Turning to his mother, he explains, “He was showing me how to massage my legs.”

Sherlock explodes into a fit of giggles.

She’s more composed now. “Well, that’s nice of him. Just remember to be safe, darling.”

Mycroft turns scarlet from embarrassment. He’s not sure which part is the most appalling—that Sherlock completely mischaracterised the situation, that they’re discussing it at dinner, or that his mother just told him to use a condom.

It’s the condom part. Definitely.


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft goes downstairs five minutes early the next day, but Greg’s already there with a dazzling smile and two cups of tea.

“Good morning,” he says, and he’s so charming it would guarantee anyone’s morning would be a good one, even if they’d just broken their ankle on the hill.

Mycroft wonders how his mother’s relentless cheeriness rubs him the wrong way while Greg’s upbeat greeting makes him glow. It’s not a hard question to answer. He smiles back. “Good morning. Sleep well?”

“Like a baby. Must have been the Scotch. Got your camera?”

“All set.” It’s only a cheap little point-and-shoot, but it’ll do.

“Great. We’ll get some action shots.” He says it with a straight face—Mycroft isn’t sure how. “Give you something to put up on your office wall.”

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. “Thank you, but no. I just want some scenery pictures.”

“Oh, come on,” Greg says, “everyone needs some holiday snaps. Don’t worry, I’ll make you look like a pro.”

“With all due respect to your talent as a photographer—”

“Don’t worry—you can’t tell how fast you’re going in a photo,” he says with a wicked grin. “And we don’t have to if you don’t want to, mind.”

“All right, I’ll think about it,” he says, because it’s hard to resist Greg’s charm.

They spend the morning on some of the easy green runs leading down from the lodge, and he’s pleasantly surprised at how well he does. He only falls down twice, and when Greg helps him to his feet, it almost makes the falling part worth it.

After a quick bowl of soup for lunch, they head back out.

“It’s such a nice day—want to go see some good views?”

“Better than these?” He’s not sure how that’s possible. It’s already like they’re skiing through a Christmas card.

“Much better. And there are some good tree runs.”

Until now, they’ve only skied on wide-open thoroughfares. The phrase ‘tree run’ makes him nervous.

“Nothing too tight,” Greg adds, hurriedly. “Just prettier than this morning. You’ll be fine.”

“Just remember, you’re the one who has to get me off the mountain,” Mycroft says, only half-joking.

A few trails and a ski lift later, they’re on a peak overlooking endless mountains. There’s a large stone sculpture near the edge of the peak, and people are getting their picture taken near it.

“It’s an inukshuk,” Greg says. “They’re Inuit navigational markers, although this one is really just a photo op. But there’s a great view of Black Tusk behind it.”

When Mycroft gets closer, he sees that it’s not a sculpture so much as it is rocks balanced on top of one another, like Stonehenge—but more of them, and smaller. Black Tusk, the most obviously named peak ever, dominates the impressive skyline. Greg’s right. It all lines up for a very good photograph.

The crowds thin out a bit, and Greg says, “Here, give me your camera. I’ll get a picture.”

He remembers his oath to burn all photographic evidence of the trip, but he’s quite proud of how well he’s doing. He’d never put it on his office wall—no one except the Queen is allowed there—but it might be nice to have the moment captured.

He takes off his skis and plants them in the snow, then walks clumsily over to the inukshuk. Greg lines up so he can get both Mycroft and Black Tusk in the picture. It’s windy, but Mycroft hears him shout “Okay, say cheese!”

He smirks, because he’d never be caught dead saying ‘cheese’ or naming any other sort of dairy product.

“Take your helmet off—you can’t tell it’s you.”

He wants to say, ‘That’s the point.’ Still, no one will ever believe he was up here if he doesn’t, so he takes it off. Then he removes a glove and runs his fingers through his hair, trying to make it look presentable.

He stands at attention, feeling awkward now that his identity is obvious, and tries to smile in a way that doesn’t seem pained or sarcastic. He’s never really thought about it before, but those are the only two smiles he owns, or at least uses on a regular basis.

“Relax,” Greg calls over to him. “You look great.”

That doesn’t help him relax.

“Think about last night,” Greg says, and all of a sudden Mycroft’s laughing, because what other response is there?

Greg gives him a thumbs-up after he gets some pictures. “I think that worked.”

A woman stops as Greg looks at the photos. “Want me to take one with you together?”

Mycroft’s eyes go wide as he hands her the camera and walks over to him.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Greg asks.

Mycroft laughs. “I don’t mind if you don’t.” He’s secretly thrilled.

Greg puts his arm casually across Mycroft’s back, and this time, he doesn’t have to think about how to smile, because it just comes naturally.

It must be the altitude that’s making it harder to breathe. And suddenly warmer. Of course.

The woman comes over with the camera and shows them the preview. “This okay?” she says. And it’s more than okay. It’s a great picture. If they were twenty years younger, it could be in a gay ski holiday brochure. He wonders if such things exist—gay ski holidays, not the brochures.

“Lovely, thanks!” Greg replies, while Mycroft’s mind is off on its own little holiday. He leans over and shows him. “I think it turned out really well.”

It’s one of the best pictures he’s ever had taken, with no trace of the stilted formality that ruins every photo he’s in. He looks back up at Greg and beams. “It really did.”

“Good enough for your office wall?” he teases.

“It’s a rather austere office,” Mycroft says, grinning as he imagines it hanging next to the portrait of the Queen, “but I might put it up at home.”

Greg beams at him, and he forgets about the cold wind blowing across his face.

“Those are the bowls I was talking about,” he says, pointing at enormous tree-free alpine areas ringed by peaks. Some people bomb down the steep slopes, kicking up clouds of powder, but groomed trails zig-zag their way to the shallow runout at the bottom, and those are populated with a more sedate variety of skier. “We don’t have enough time today, but we could take the green way down one of them tomorrow if you want.”

As Mycroft looks at him doubtfully, he adds, “I think you’d enjoy it.”

Beyond all reason, that’s all the motivation he needs. He agrees.

They make their way back to the village on some of the treed runs Greg had mentioned. The snow sits on the cedar branches like something out of a Victorian Christmas scene.

As they progress down the mountain, the blue sky gives way to a light layer of fog. (“Technically, it’s a low cloud,” Greg tells him.) Greg keeps glancing left, as though he’s looking for something, but Mycroft is too busy concentrating on staying in one piece to take much notice.

“Let’s head over here. You should see this.”

Mycroft’s jaw goes slack when he looks over at Greg. The area behind the trees is _glowing_ , casting rays of light through the fog in the same the way children draw light emanating from a lighthouse. It’s magical. He stops and fumbles for his camera, sure the effect will pass before he can get a picture.

“There’s no rush. Come over by the side of the run so no one knocks us over.”

He can’t believe it’s real. “Does this happen… a lot?”

“Not all the time, but if it’s a nice day up top and a bit cloudy down lower, it’s a safe bet. Thought you’d like it.”

“It’s incredible. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank the weather.”

“You know what I mean.” He gets pictures, because how can he not? No one would believe this without photographic evidence. (He secretly hopes Sherlock hasn’t seen it.) He asks Greg to pose in one of them (‘to show the scale’) and tries not to blush as he lies. It’s true, sort of. The trees are enormous, but he really just wants another picture of Greg. It’s one of the most romantic places he’s ever been, and it’s making him bolder than usual.

He can’t decide how to proceed with Greg. He wages an internal battle all the way back to the base area, and he still hasn’t come to a decision when they reach his hotel. Greg gives him a cheery farewell and heads towards the lobby door.

“Wait,” he calls after him, desperation making the decision for him. Greg turns back to look at him and Mycroft hurries over. “Do you know anywhere good for dinner?”

“Oh, um, sure. What sort of food?”

“What sort do you like?”

Greg frowns, and Mycroft realises the question was more ambiguous than flirtatious. He scrambles to clarify, saying the first thing he thinks of. “I thought I could take you out for dinner somewhere. You know, as a ‘thank you’ for putting up with my whining.” It’s as good an excuse as any.

“I…” Greg looks uncomfortable and takes a few seconds to find words. “I really appreciate it, but dinners aren’t in the job description.” He gives him a weak smile. “Thanks, though.”

He panics. He shouldn’t have asked—at least not like that. It’s horribly inappropriate.

“I, um…” Mycroft isn’t used to being at a loss for words. “Sorry,” he says, trying again, “it doesn’t have anything to do with the skiing. That was just an excuse to make this easier, except it didn’t. We could pretend you’re not my ski instructor and I chatted you up in a bar or something. Except I don’t do that. Oh, God.” He’s babbling and making things worse by the second. He really needs to shut up. Now. 

Greg’s face is somewhere between amused and incredulous.

Mycroft tries again. “I’m sorry. If you don’t want to go, I completely understand. We can both pretend this awful conversation didn’t happen.”

Greg pauses for a second and then breaks out in a real grin. “I never said I didn’t _want_ to go. I think you’re worth an exception.”

They end up at one of the nicest steakhouses in Whistler: starched linen tablecloths, waiters dressed in black. Mycroft is used to expensive restaurants, but Greg shifts awkwardly in his jacket and tie.

As they sit down, Greg looks around at the dark wood and well-dressed patrons and raises his eyebrows. “Quite something. Always heard it was nice in here.”

It confirms his suspicions that Greg hasn’t been here before. He hasn’t given it much thought before now, but ‘skiing instructor’ must not be a lucrative profession. Their waiter—young, Australian—comes over with the menu and a wine list that takes up an entire book. Greg’s eyes go wide when he sees the prices, but he doesn’t say anything.

“I was thinking about some wine,” Mycroft says. “Would you like some?”

“Sure. Sounds great.”

“Do you have a preference?”

“I don’t know much about wine. Anything red—whatever you think is good.” He gives Mycroft an easy smile. His unease is gone now, replaced by the confidence he’d shown when they first met.

Mycroft orders a nice Merlot. Not too heavy, but it should work with the steak.

They’re having a nice time, chatting on about nothing in particular and eating bruschetta, when something catches Greg’s eye. He stops mid-sentence.

“Everything all right?”

“Yeah, sorry. It’s fine. What were you saying?”

Whatever Greg had seen, it was enough to make him forget that he’d been the one speaking. About ten minutes later, it happens again: Greg’s gaze leaves Mycroft long enough to track someone passing through the room. He doesn’t lose his thread of the conversation this time, but he looks a bit unsettled.

He catches Mycroft watching him. “Sorry. Someone I know. Didn’t expect to see him here.” Then he goes back to quizzing him about life in England and how it’s changed since he was there.

_Ex_ , Mycroft thinks, not particularly bothered by it. Most people have them, and most people would react the same way to seeing them during a date.

A date. Is this a date? He hopes so.

The meal is outstanding: an excellent steak and a nicely executed créme brûlée for dessert. Just the one bottle of wine, but it’s the perfect amount.

They go outside and bundle up against the cold. The air is _crisp_ , like Moscow.

“That was delicious. Thank you,” Greg says, tucking a well-worn scarf into the neck of his coat.

“No, thank _you_. The pleasure was all mine.”

Greg gives him a crooked grin and starts to say something, but stops.

“What?”

“Well… that’s a hell of an opening, that’s all. Sorry. Mind’s always in the gutter.” He might be apologising, but he doesn’t look particularly sorry.

Mycroft chuckles. “Not such a bad thing.” He makes a mental note to drop more innuendo-laced lines into their conversations. He hadn’t meant anything by this one, but now his mind is in the gutter too and it’s making him blush. He’s glad to have the wine and cold air as excuses. He’s never been very good at flirting. It’s nice though, having Greg encourage him.

The restaurant is just on the edge of the main village, and they start walking back in the direction of Mycroft’s hotel. The mountains loom above them, the reflected light of the village giving them a faint, eerie glow. High up on the slopes, Mycroft sees lights moving.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, the cats,” Greg says, as if that’s supposed to make sense.

Mycroft looks at him like he has two heads.

“Snowcats,” he adds, when he sees Mycroft’s expression. “They’re the grooming machines that make the trails flat. They do it in the middle of the night while the mountain’s closed.”

“Huh. I never thought about people being up there after dark.”

“There’s hardly anyone. Some maintenance people and the groomers, really.” He pulls out his phone and checks the time. “It’s still pretty early; you up for an adventure?”

“You’re going to take me on a snowcat?”

“God, no. They’re slow and loud as hell. Not much fun.”

“Oh,” Mycroft says, a little disappointed.

“Have you ever been on a snowmobile?”

His eyes go wide. The only time he’s even _seen_ a snowmobile is in a James Bond film. “No.”

“Want to? I can’t promise anything, but a mate owes me a favour.”

A tingle races up his spine and he thinks it’s the best thing he’s ever heard, which is funny, considering the idea of riding a motorbike terrifies him. He tells himself it’s not the same thing, because it’s not.

“Hang on a sec.” Greg makes a quick phone call, and when he hangs up, he’s beaming. “All ours. You’ll have to change into your snow gear, mind. You’d get style points for going up in a suit, but I don’t think you’d be very happy when we got there.”

He doesn’t even care; he’s starting to get used to the ridiculous outfit anyway. “Is my room on the way?”

Greg frowns. “Oh. Yeah, but mine’s not. And my car’s back at the flat.”

“I can drive us there.”

“Really?”

“Wait. How’d you get here tonight?” He hadn’t given it any thought, just presumed that Greg lived within walking distance.

“Bus. There’s nowhere to park in the village.”

Mycroft glances around. Most of the cars he sees are lined up in front of hotels with valet parking. There are no multi-storey car parks. His own car, hired ‘just in case’, sits unused in the parking beneath his hotel. The village caters to the needs of visitors, not employees. The only housing options seem to be high-end condos and hotels. He wonders how anyone can afford to live here.

They swing by his hotel so he can change, then they drive a few kilometres out of town to a quiet subdivision filled with dingy, low-rise flats. Some are in better shape than others, but all of them paint a stark contrast to the pristine buildings in the village.

“You want to wait here? It’ll only take me a couple minutes.”

“Of course.” He debates for a second but leaves the car running. The heated leather seats feel wonderful in the brisk night air, but they seem like a showy display of extravagance in the face of Greg’s now-obvious lack of income.

They don’t seem to bother Greg. He hops back into the car about five minutes later and makes an approving little noise at the warmth awaiting him. “This is lovely, eh?”

Mycroft grins at the Canadian mannerism, spoken with a British accent. “It is. I don’t have a car in London.”

“Yeah, you can take the tube everywhere.”

He smiles in noncommittal agreement, not wanting to lie outright. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s taken public transport in the past ten years—three due to horrendous traffic, and the fourth when his chauffeured car got a flat on the way to a meeting with the Prime Minister.

Greg squints and proves to be far better at reading body language than Mycroft had bargained for. “You don’t, though, do you? So how do you get around?”

It’s a fair question, but one he doesn’t want to answer. It’ll blast a gaping hole in his ‘minor government official’ story. Not that Greg bought it to begin with. “I have a company car.”

In a flash, he puts two and two together and says, “Oh my God. You have a chauffeur.”

Mycroft shrugs helplessly. “It goes with the job.”

“‘Minor government official’ my arse. You really do run the world,” he says, but he sounds more amused than anything.

“Only on Wednesdays. It’s more of a world domination job-share.”

“Today’s Wednesday. I haven’t checked the news but I don’t think any wars broke out.”

“We have understudies. It’s just like ballet.”

“Ballet?” he says, eyes wide with amusement.

“Bad example.”

Greg chuckles to himself. “No, I think it’s a brilliant example. Come on, let’s get back to the village.”

They park back at the hotel and walk over to the base area. Tucked off to the side, where Mycroft hadn’t noticed it, there’s a smallish industrial building. Greg unlocks the padlocked metal door and ushers him in. There’s some unidentifiable machinery, a stack of ski patrol ‘sleds’ to haul injured skiers off the mountain, and a row of snowmobiles. They’re a lot larger than he expected.

“Okay.” Greg gives him an enthusiastic grin. “Every ridden a motorcycle?”

“Um, no.”

“Well, that’s all right because this is a lot easier.” Greg pulls two motorcycle helmets down from a shelf and hands him one. Then he looks at Mycroft’s ski boots and fishes around in a cabinet for a few minutes. “Here, put these on and see if they fit.” They’re padded oversized wellies, even more ridiculous-looking than the hard plastic shells of his boots. “They’ll be more comfortable. And warm.”

Anything would be more comfortable than ski boots, and he gladly puts them on. His toes instantly warm up a few degrees.

“Right, once you put the helmet on, it’ll be difficult to hear each other. Basically, you’re going to sit behind me and put your hands around my waist and jam your feet against the running boards. Or you can hang on to the handle behind you.”

There’s no doubt in his mind which he’ll be doing. He’d be an idiot to pass up a chance to wrap his body around Greg’s.

“I’ll try and brake slowly so our helmets don’t bash together, but keep your head back from mine a bit. Other than that, just sit back and enjoy the scenery. Well, you won’t be able to see much in the dark, but it’s a rush.”

Greg takes the machine out of the garage and Mycroft climbs on. The seat is shorter and wider than it looks. Legs spread wide and groin pressed right up against Greg’s arse, he swallows—the position borders on obscene. He feels Greg chuckle, and while it’s tempting to squirm a little in retaliation, he doesn’t have the nerve. He wraps his arms around his waist.

“Comfy?” Greg shouts through the helmet.

‘Comfy’ isn’t the word he’d have used. ‘Aroused’, perhaps. Also ‘nervous’. “Yeah,” he yells back.

“Good. Tap me if you need to stop for some reason. I won’t be able to hear you over the engine.”

Once he fires it up, Mycroft understands why. Even through the helmet it’s incredibly loud, and the whole snowmobile vibrates powerfully beneath him.

“Ready?” Greg yells. He drives it slowly to the bottom of the wide ski slope and lets it idle for a second. “Okay, hold tight!”

He has the good grace to accelerate slowly, although dumping someone on their arse in the snow is probably bad form. They race up the hill at a breathtaking speed, and the trails feel completely different in the dark—looming trees on one side of them and varying degrees of precipitous drop-offs on the other. As they turn a corner, he sees the village down below. It’s beautiful.

Greg pulls over so he can take a look. “Nice, yeah?” he yells, over the din of the idling engine.

“Gorgeous,” he shouts back.

“You doing okay?”

Mycroft gives him a gloved thumbs-up. It’s easier than trying to make himself heard over the noise.

“Steeper okay? It’s quicker. You’ll have to hang on tight.”

He suspects Greg’s motives aren’t entirely time-based, not that he cares. Quite the opposite. He gives him another thumbs-up and wraps his arms tighter around his waist; pushes himself a little farther forward on the seat; squirms—just a bit—and laughs to himself. He doesn’t remember the last time he had this much fun. He’d forgotten what glee felt like.

They meet one of the snowcats coming down the hill, a hulking beast of a machine, noisy and blinding and taking up more than half the run, and he’s glad Greg’s driving because he’d have steered them into a snowbank out of sheer panic. Greg gives a quick wave to the driver, who smiles and nods.

On the straighter runs, Greg really opens it up, and it feels like they’re flying. Adrenaline courses through his veins, and it’s even more glorious because he doesn’t have to control the situation; he’s literally along for the ride.

They’re at the top sooner than he expects. Between the body contact and the adrenaline, he’s half-hard, and when Greg squirms back against him before stepping off the machine—he can’t tell if it’s deliberate or not—Mycroft makes an undignified noise, thankfully muffled by his helmet. He’s grateful for the loose fit of his ski pants.

Greg has parked them in front of the lodge, only a few steps away from the large-framed wooden doors. “So, what’d you think?” he asks as they remove their helmets.

“Amazing.” It’s blissfully silent up here, although his ears still ring a bit from the engine noise. He runs his fingers through his hair, worrying it looks ridiculous. Greg absent-mindedly does the same and it looks like he’s spent half an hour with a stylist.

“Don’t worry, you look great. Come on, let’s get something warm to drink.”

The lodge is dark except for a few security lights, but it’s more peaceful than creepy.

Mycroft is still charged up from the ride and can’t stop grinning. “Does that ever get old?”

Greg laughs. “Never. Fun, yeah?”

“I had no idea. It was so exciting, with the wind rushing past and the speed and everything. The mountain’s so different at night.” Words tumble out of his mouth in his enthusiasm. He’s vaguely aware he’s babbling like a ten-year-old, but Greg doesn’t seem to care.

“What do you want to drink?” They’re in the same restaurant as yesterday, but it looks different in the half-light. Greg turns on the light underneath the bar, giving the place an ice-blue glow.

“What are you having?”

“Just cocoa for me. Have to drive,” he says, quirking a grin.

“Make that two.” In a moment of bravery, he slides into Greg’s personal space, wanting to see if he’ll move. He doesn’t. Nor does he start making cocoa. It’s enough of a confirmation for him—that this is a date and not just Greg being sociable. ‘Sociable’ would have backed off to a comfortable distance. This—this is charged. Electric.

“Do you bring all your dates to empty ski lodges?” Mycroft asks, cringing when he hears how cheesy it sounds. Still, it’s casual and silly enough that he can pretend it’s a joke if he’s read this all wrong.

Greg flashes him a wicked grin. “Only the ones I really like.”

They forget about the cocoa entirely as Mycroft leans in decisively and kisses him. It’s desperate. Hungry. He doesn’t remember the last time he did something this impulsive; things should be weighed, rationalised. But the feel of Greg’s lips, his mouth tasting faintly of the Merlot they’d shared, makes him forget that. He cups Greg’s head and pulls him closer. Now that he knows he hasn’t misread everything, he’s desperate for more.

Not breaking the kiss, Greg guides him up against the counter and slides his muscular thigh between Mycroft’s legs, pinning him. When he rolls his hips, Mycroft feels him already hard through the thin material of his ski pants. He matches the movement, but it’s not enough. He cups Greg’s arse and pulls him closer, earning a grateful moan. They’re making out like a couple of teenagers, more frenzied and desperate than it has any right to be.

When Mycroft slides his hand down the back of Greg’s ski pants, he yelps. “Cold hands!”

“They’ll warm up,” Mycroft says, kissing him to silence any further objections. He has a spectacular arse, well-toned and firm beneath his kneading fingers.

Greg retaliates with a cold hand of his own, not that Mycroft has any complaints. Their cocks press against each other through the fabric, and he’s not sure how long he can go without taking this further.

He stops kissing him long enough to rest his forehead against Greg’s, breathing hard. “How many people have the key to this place?”

“A few. None of them likely to walk in on us though. Why? Feeling overdressed?” He raises an eyebrow cheekily.

“Something like that.” Then he’s kissing him again before either of them can come to their senses.

When Greg breaks away, it’s to drag him to a different part of the restaurant. “You an exhibitionist? We could do it in front of the windows.”

He’s not sure what ‘it’ is, but he’s pretty sure he’d rather be off in the shadows. A deserted ski lodge is public enough. “Uh—”

“Don’t worry, I was joking.” Greg presses him against a nearby wall, well away from the windows, and kisses him hard and deep as he undoes the zip on Mycroft’s trousers.

He tries to reciprocate, but Greg bats his hand away. He’s not expecting it when Greg drops to his knees in front of him.

Greg pulls down his ski pants and mouths his erection through his underwear, feeling it out, covering it with hot breaths but not exerting enough pressure to bring any sort of relief.

He’s too desperate and hard to be patient now, and he grabs Greg’s head and pulls him closer, pushing his cheek up against his covered cock. “Tease,” he says. “Are you going to do something with that, or would you rather I fed it to you?” He almost apologises after saying it, horrified at his own words, but Greg moans his approval and pulls down his pants.

Then he looks up at Mycroft through half-lidded eyes and licks his lips. “Persuade me.”

Those two words erase any doubt he has about taking control of the situation. He rubs the glistening head of his cock along the side of Greg’s cheek, slick and obscene.

He sticks his tongue out and licks it like a damned lollipop. He looks back up at Mycroft, his brown eyes twinkling.

“You don’t look like you need persuading,” Mycroft says, amused.

He gives him a sinful look. “Oh, I really do.”

His voice should be illegal.

Mycroft _wants_. He grabs a fistful of hair to keep him in place and guides his slippery cock between Greg’s waiting lips. His hips jerk as the lush wetness closes around him; it’s been years. He pushes in until he meets resistance and then backs off, but Greg pushes forward, taking even more of him in. Far more than can be comfortable. When the muscles of Greg’s throat contract against the head of his cock (and buggering fuck that feels amazing), he stares down in wonder. He’s never met anyone who can do that without gagging.

He pulls out and tentatively pushes back in. He feels a hum of approval vibrate through his cock, and his next thrust is not as gentle. God, how does he even do that?

A strong hand grasps his arse, pulling his cock deeper.

Mycroft laughs. “Hungry?”

Greg makes a greedy noise and loosens his grasp, allowing him to pull out a bit.

He fists both hands in Greg’s gorgeous hair and tugs. Greg’s moan resonates through his cock, and he feels his jaw and mouth relax, preparing for what’s next.

Unable to hold back any longer, he snaps his hips forward and buries his cock down Greg’s throat. Then he does it again. Not only does he take every inch—he seems to revel in it. They set up a rhythm of sorts, five or six brutal thrusts and then a quick pause for Greg to snatch some air into his lungs.

Mycroft watches his face intently: eyes closed and lips stretched thin around his cock. He forgets where they are, forgets everything except the way Greg’s mouth makes him feel. And God, he’s gorgeous.

Pressure starts to build at the base of his spine, and he gives Greg’s hair a warning tug. “Almost there.” But Greg doesn’t pull off or make any move to stop, just lets Mycroft keep fucking his throat.

He gives a few more hard thrusts and he’s coming, thick and wet in his mouth. Greg’s throat contracts around the head of his cock as he swallows him down, and Mycroft’s vision greys around the edges at the sensation. His cock twitches as he sucks him dry, cleans him off.

Coming back to earth, Mycroft releases his grasp and pulls out of his mouth. Greg’s tongue darts out and cleans his lips of a few drops of semen that had leaked around the edges. Mycroft gulps. That shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

Greg stands up, holding his cock. Mycroft offers to reciprocate.

“No need,” he says, grinning. There’s come on his hand. “I _really_ enjoy doing that. It’s been years.”

He’d been so focussed on Greg’s mouth, he hadn’t even realised he was taking care of himself. “That was… how do you even do that? It’s amazing. It _feels_ amazing.”

Greg shrugs. “Always been able to. Born lucky, I guess.” He gives him that wide grin that lights up the room. “Um, I’ll just get us a towel or something, yeah?” He returns with a warm, damp bar rag. When Mycroft eyes it suspiciously, he says, “Don’t worry, they had a stack of clean ones.”

He gasps as Greg gently wipes him clean; the rough towelling against his sensitised penis sends another round of pulses through his body.

“Sorry.”

“Please, don’t apologise,” Mycroft says with a chuckle. “That was incredible.”

“Yeah,” he says with a lopsided grin. “It was.”

He tries to think of something interesting to say but instead blurts out, “I haven’t had sex like that in years.” Then he feels like an idiot because he hasn’t had _any_ sex in years, and surely Greg knows that and will take it the wrong way and—

Greg interrupts his destructive train of thought with a kiss. When they pull apart, he says, “You okay?”

Mycroft nods.

“We should probably get a move on. I’m not sure when the cleaning people show up.”

They get dressed for the trip back, and Greg makes them cocoa. They gaze out the windows at the sleeping hulks of the mountains as they sip their drinks.

“I love it up here at night,” he says, and Mycroft—irrationally jealous—wonders if he comes up here a lot.

The ride back down the mountain is just as thrilling as the journey up. On one part, where it’s really straight, Greg lets him drive. It’s exhilarating, and he lets out a few cries of pure delight as small variations in the snow bounce them off their seats a few inches. He’d say it was better than a roller-coaster, but he’s never been on one. He thinks it must be.

They stow the machine back in the shed and head back to his hotel. He’s grinning like a loon, not sure which part of the evening has been best: that Greg agreed to the date, the snowmobile ride, or the amazing sex in the lodge. It’s like all his Christmases have come at once, no pun intended. Nervous, but with nothing to lose, he says, “Just putting this out there: would you like to stay at mine? It’s fine if you’d rather not.”

Greg turns to him, surprised. “You sure?”

He nods.

“Yeah, I’d love that. Thanks.” He reaches over and squeezes his hand.

He’s horrified when he remembers his mother’s comment about ‘being safe’. He never picked up any sort of supplies—never thought he’d need them. “Ah. Um, I’m not trying to presume anything, but we might have to stop somewhere on the way back. I’m not exactly prepared.”

Greg chuckles. “I’m ‘minimally prepared’.”

“Meaning?”

“One condom, one packet of lube. How much sleep did you plan on getting?”

Mycroft chuckles, not sure if he’s joking or not. He doesn’t mind either way—he’s looking forward to the company as much as he is the sex.

They stop at the late-night supermarket on the way back. Just in case.

With the privacy of the hotel room, the sex is less frantic. There’s more time to explore each other’s bodies. For a while, that’s all they do. Palms smoothing across warm skin, lingering kisses and the faint taste of cocoa. Greg mapping the length of Mycroft’s neck with his tongue. It’s a slow, smouldering burn.

Mycroft’s hands glide across Greg’s stomach and all his muscles contract, almost ticklish, but then he’s pushing up into his hand and his cock feels like silk beneath his fingertips. He wraps his hand around him and Greg’s breath catches in his throat, his eyes fluttering closed. Greg seeks out his mouth as he starts to stroke him, hungry kisses grounding them as their hands explore.

There’s a disappointed noise as Mycroft pulls away, but it soon stops as he kisses his way down the firm muscles of Greg’s chest, lingering to tease one of his nipples. He continues his long, slow pulls. They must be maddening—not firm enough to provide any real release—but Greg doesn’t push for more, just moans like it’s been years since someone paid this much attention to his body.

He shifts farther down the bed and straddles his calves, never removing his hand. Greg’s head is pressed back against the pillow, eyes closed, and he’s not expecting it when Mycroft slides his mouth around his cock.

Everything ignites.

His legs are pinned to the bed, but the rest of his body arcs like a live wire.

It’s been a while since he’s gone down on anyone, but Greg’s moans give him confidence. He can’t help but tease him a bit, flicking his tongue across the slit and curling it around the head, holding back until his moans turn more desperate. He’s not as talented as Greg, can’t go nearly as deep, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Doesn’t push for more. Just lets him do what he wants, his hands fisted in the sheets.

He’d forgotten what it’s like to feel the weight of a cock on his tongue, pressing against the roof of his mouth, stretching his lips wide. There’s a satisfying _hunger_ to it. He’s getting as much from this as Greg is, feeling the joy of eliciting little noises with the flick of his tongue or a broad lick along his length. Greg’s sub-vocal growl of pleasure when he cups his balls. The increasing tension in his thighs as his body edges towards orgasm.

It’s not long before Greg warns him that he’s close, but Mycroft ignores him. Greg bucks up into his mouth and shudders as he comes, first with a grunt and then an extravagant moan and an expression that could be read as pain if taken out of context. Mycroft licks him clean until he’s too sensitive to take it.

He melts back against the bed for a few moments, beyond the capacity for speech. When he opens his eyes, he sees Mycroft gazing down at him, stroking himself off to the view. “Want me to return the favour?” he says, his voice sex-rough and gorgeous. “You know how much I enjoy it.”

Mycroft shakes his head. “Too close,” he says, breathing hard. Truth is, just watching Greg come apart like that had almost been enough to tip him over the edge. He looks wrecked and Mycroft can’t believe he’s the one who did it. “Is it okay…?” he nods towards Greg’s toned stomach. He wants to spill all over it.

“God, yeah,” he says, propping himself up on his elbows, his expression hungry. “Come for me. I wanna watch.”

Just hearing him say it is enough, and the orgasm rips through him. He shudders through it and then flops down on the bed next to him, careful not to get his messy hand on the sheets. He hums contentedly and rubs his foot against Greg’s. This is where you’d murmur endearments, he supposes—expressions of love—completely inappropriate here. He settles for a mundane, “Thank you. That was amazing.”

Greg laughs. “You’re aware you were doing all the work, right?”

“Doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy it.”

Smiling, he says, “It was bloody spectacular. Thanks.”

He beams at the compliment and looks over at him. “I don’t know if we’ll be able to use those condoms tonight,” he says. “I’m exhausted.”

Greg chuckles. “Makes two of us. We’re not seventeen anymore.”

“More’s the pity.”

“Yeah.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence for a bit, and then Mycroft gets them a wet flannel. When he comes back to bed, they curl up against each other. The contact is reassuring—which is good, because a vague panic is setting in.

He can’t figure out if this is the best thing he’s ever done or a colossal mistake. He’s had a few long-term relationships, but he missed the whole ‘casual sex’ phase of life—whenever (and whatever) that’s supposed to be. Probably his early twenties, when he was too busy studying. He suspects that particular phase required more alcohol than he was willing to consume.

He stares at the ceiling, soft-focus, wondering how he’s going to deal with this tomorrow. He hopes it’s not ‘crippling regret and embarrassment’. Greg lies next to him, equally quiet—ironic considering how much noise they’d been making only five minutes earlier.

“This doesn’t have to be any more or any less than what it is,” Greg says, breaking the silence between them.

“How so?”

“Well, we can forget this ever happened, or we can continue to enjoy it while you’re here. No harm, no foul.” Mycroft is still pondering this when he adds, “—and in case it’s unclear, I’d prefer to continue. Just so you know. But it’s up to you as well, obviously.”

“There should be some sort of etiquette for holiday romances,” Mycroft says.

“God, I know. That’s why I avoid them like the plague.”

He looks at him, surprised.

Greg continues. “I have five rules: no tourists, no one under twenty-five, no clients, no colleagues, and no professional athletes.”

He can understand the first four, but the last one throws him for a loop. “Sorry?”

“Long story. Let’s just say they never have the time for a relationship and leave it at that.”

Mycroft’s seen the population of the village, and most of the people fall into the first two categories. “Does that leave anyone else?”

“Not really. But all bets are off during Pride Week, so there’s a bit of mindless sex to be had.” He wears a half-smile, but it’s more lonely than enthusiastic.

“May I ask why the age consideration?”

He gives a short laugh. “The obvious answer or the real one?”

“The real one?” he says cautiously. 

“Disastrously poor judgement on my part. You know that person I saw in the restaurant? We saw each other for two weeks. It was supposed to be casual and fun, but I ended it when I found out he had a drug habit. Then he started stalking me and got a job at the ski school, and I’ve been trying to avoid him ever since.”

“Oh.” Well, he’d been right about the ‘ex’ part. “And this extends to anyone under twenty-five?”

“There’s a lot of drama in that age group. The sex isn’t worth it.”

“So… not that I’m complaining, but what are you doing with me?

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look older than twenty-five.” There’s a smirk in his voice, and Mycroft is glad the discussion hasn’t put Greg in too dark of a mood.

“I assure you I won’t join the ski school, although my job does require some professional stalking.”

“Yeah?” He sounds curious.

“Don’t worry; I promise you won’t end up on any lists.”

“Sounds more interesting than garden-variety stalking.” He pauses and looks over at him, intrigued. “Do you get an exploding pen?”

“Only when the ink cartridge is bad.”

Greg chuckles, then his look turns more serious. “So, we’re good then?”

He says, in a quiet voice, “I live half a world away and have a job that precludes any sort of relationship. I’ll only be here until Sunday. If we’re both all right with those limitations, I don’t think it’s a problem.”

“Life’s short. It’d be silly not to enjoy it while we can.”

Mycroft lips quirk into a half-smile. “Yeah, it would.”


	9. Chapter 9

The sound of an unfamiliar ringtone pulls Mycroft out of a pleasant dream. Equally unfamiliar is the sensation of a warm body next to his, although the pleasure is marred somewhat by Greg fumbling around and muttering obscenities as he tries to find his phone in the dark room.

“Sorry, sorry,” Greg says, “should have turned the ringer off.” Then there’s a “Jesus, what does he want?” before he says, “Hello?”

Mycroft can’t hear the other side of the conversation, but judging by Greg’s reaction, it’s not good.

“What? You’re joking.” Greg props himself up on one arm, and Mycroft sees the tension in his body even in the dim light of the room. “It was just dinner. I don’t see what you’re so upset about.”

Mycroft raises a disapproving eyebrow and wonders how an evening of enthusiastic sex can be described as ‘just dinner’. Hurt and anger—or perhaps just disappointment—rise in his chest.

“Look, let me come in and talk about it, yeah? I’m the best instructor you have and you know it. Please.”

—and then guilt rushes in to replace his other emotions as it dawns on him that this is Greg’s boss, not a lover.

“All right. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Thanks.”

Mycroft switches on the light next to the bed. Greg’s face is ashen. “What’s wrong?”

“Look, I’m really sorry, but I have to go and deal with something. I swear I’m not trying to run out on you.”

“It’s fine. Can we still meet up for the lesson later?”

Greg looks distraught and rubs the back of his head. “Um.” He hesitates.

“What is it?”

“Well, I’m not sure how to tell you this, but I’m pretty sure I just got sacked.”

“What?” The sick feeling in his stomach returns in full force. _‘It was just dinner’_ rings in his ears. This is all his fault.

“I’ll get it sorted. They can’t get rid of me.”

“You’re not allowed to socialise with clients?” Greg’s comment about his ‘job description’ makes more sense now.

He looks around anxiously. “Not really, but it’s never been an issue before.” Greg gets out of bed and starts throwing on his clothes. “Look, I’m really sorry. I’ve got to run. Here, um, let me get your number and I’ll phone you when I know what’s going on. I’m sure I’ll have it sorted in an hour or so, and we can get on with our day.”

“God, I’m so sorry. If I’d known you’d get in trouble for this, I never would have asked. Can I call him and explain? I was the one who initiated it, after all.” 

Greg shakes his head and gives him his phone so he can put in his number. “It’s not your fault. Really. I’m sure it’ll all be fine.”

Mycroft gives him a worried smile, the best he can muster under the circumstances.

“I’ll phone you as soon as I can.” He leans down and gives him a quick kiss, and then he’s gone.

Mycroft sits in the silent room, stunned. He can’t shake the horrifying feeling that he’s ruined Greg’s life.

* * *

_Buggering fuck._

His ‘career’—such as it is—has been on a downward slope for ages, but it just fell off a fucking cliff.

There’s no way Joel is going to give him his job back, but he has to try.

He storms over to the office in a huff. It has to be Andy who’s ratted him out, but he never thought he’d sink this low. It can’t be anyone else; no one else has seen him with Mycroft outside of work. It’s just the sort of opportunity he’s been looking for to get back at Greg. Talk about the ex from hell.

It’s a bloody disaster.

The meeting with Joel goes about as well as he expects: it’s a train wreck of begging on his part and unyielding churlishness on Joel’s. They both know he’s the best instructor at the school, but Joel says he can’t make exceptions.

“What about Mr Holmes?” Greg says, desperate to at least end the week with a little dignity.

“We’ll set him up with Andy. I’m sure he won’t mind.” Joel looks unbearably smug about it.

Salt in the wounds. A nice touch. “It wouldn’t look good for the school to switch someone like that. At least let me finish out the week. Keep Mr Holmes happy.”

“No.”

“Then I’ll do it for free.”

Joel laughs. “It must have been a really good date.”

It’s all he can do not to deck him, but he reigns in his anger. “Just… let me have this, okay? Don’t put Andy on it. You’re just rewarding him for being a prick.”

Joel shrugs. “Whatever. I need your jacket back. Those things aren’t cheap.”

“Monday,” Greg says. “I need the lift ticket until then too. It has to look like I’m still working here.”

“Fine, but if I don’t get it back, you’re not getting your final paycheque.”

He almost mutters something rude but catches himself just in time. “Thanks. You know where to find me if you change your mind about this; I’m still your best teacher.”

“Not anymore,” he says, and that’s the end of the conversation.

He walks out into the cold. There’s a small crowd of people already lining up for the first gondola. He checks his phone—it won’t start running for another half an hour. Two men speaking French smoke strong cigarettes. God, he’d kill for one right now. He hasn’t smoked since after his accident and it had been hell to quit, but he needs one—needs something. _No._ What he _needs_ is this thing with Mycroft.

He takes out his phone and his hands are shaking, not from the cold. What’s he going to do? Wait tables? He’s not young enough or cute enough to make decent tips, and he’d rather wash dishes than be forced to smile at rude tourists all day. He could call Natalie, but they don’t have many openings in the winter. God, he hates this place sometimes. The only reason he stays is for the free lift pass, and that just followed his job in its swan-dive off the cliff.

Something’ll come up. It has to.

He tries to push it all out of his mind as he calls Mycroft, who picks up on the first ring. “Hi, Mycroft?”

“Greg? How’d it go?” He sounds nervous.

Lie. Lie through your teeth. He hates to do it, but he wants to keep the fairytale going through the end of the week. No point in ruining it for both of them. Smiling to make sure the right tone comes across in his voice, he says, “Fine. I worked it all out.”

“Oh, thank God for that. I’m so relieved.”

“Look, I have to go and get my gear from the flat, but I’ll call you as soon as I’m back, yeah? I’ll be about half an hour.”

“Of course. I’ll be ready.”

As he puts away his phone, he tells himself he’ll figure it out. Somehow. 

* * *

Mycroft breathes a sigh of relief as he hangs up the phone. ‘Ruining someone’s life’ had not been on his holiday agenda. Anyone can see Greg is an excellent instructor, and he can’t believe they’d get rid of him for something so silly.

Greg shows up looking relaxed and happy. He suggests they head farther afield today and check out the less-trafficked bowls.

“I have an odd request.”

Greg looks up from putting on his gloves. “Hm?”

“Is there any way I can watch you ski? I mean ski _properly_ , not just inch down the slopes with me.”

He frowns. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Well, you must be good or you wouldn’t have the job. I’d like to have something to aspire to.” He’ll never get off the green slopes on this trip, and they both know it. Then, with newfound confidence after the previous night, he adds in a quiet voice, “Besides, I think it’s sexy.”

Greg gives him a crooked smile. “Thanks.” He thinks for a moment and says, “Yeah, we could do it if you don’t mind waiting in one spot for a bit, sure. I could loop back up on the lift and then ski down to meet you.”

As they head outside, they’re greeted by a cold, wet fog.

“Will we be able to see anything up there? It looks pretty bad.”

“Yeah, I checked the cams. The village will be socked in all day, but it’s clear at the top. Inversion layer. Happens a lot. It’s nice, because people see the weather down here and don’t go up.”

True to his word, it’s gloriously sunny at the summit and not as crowded as the previous day. Out in the bowls, it’s even better. There are only a few people on the groomed trails; most of the others ski out along the ridge to ride an impossibly vertical face that joins up with flatter runs at the bottom of the bowl.

“Is that as steep as it looks?”

“Depends on how you define steep. It’s not ninety degrees, if that’s what you mean.”

“You ever been down there?”

Greg smiles. “Yeah, all the time. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Could you go out there now? I’d love to watch.”

“Sure. I’ll radio you when I’m ready so you don’t miss it. It can be hard to tell who’s who at this distance. See that guy just past the third band of rocks? That’s where I’ll drop in.”

When Greg gets into position, his voice crackles over the walkie-talkie. “Okay, I’m all set. Can you see me? Wave if you’re watching, because once I go, I can’t stop.” The rest of the skiers seem to be nervously examining their potential routes, but Greg is waving at him like a little kid. It’s endearing as hell. A few of the skiers turn to stare at him. Mycroft can only imagine their expressions. 

He fumbles with the walkie-talkie. “I see you. Good luck!” He waves back enthusiastically to make sure Greg gets the message—the ski school radio technology isn’t quite up to MI6 standards.

He can’t wait to see him in his element. He expects to be impressed, but Greg’s skills go far beyond what he’d imagined. The other skiers look tentative compared to him. He drops in and bombs straight down in a cloud of powder, not even turning. At one point—to Mycroft’s horror—he goes off a band of rocks that must be at least ten feet high. He sails through the air and it seems as though time stands still, but he sticks the landing, kicking up another cloud of fluffy snow, and continues down the slope, switching to graceful turns as it gets less steep. The tracks look like giant S’s going down the mountain.

Greg skis up to him with a smile that could power a small city, and Mycroft feels the waves of adrenaline-fuelled glee radiating from him.

“That,” Mycroft says, well and truly in awe of him, “was amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Greg beams. “It’s so much fun,” he says, and it seems like the understatement of the year.

“How long have you been skiing? I can’t imagine ever getting that good.”

Greg looks up for a few seconds, doing mental arithmetic. “God. I guess almost thirty-five years now.”

“I’m sure I could train for fifty and never be that good. That was incredible.”

He laughs it off. “Everything’s relative. You should see the guys who really know what they’re doing. Steeps were never my strong point.”

“Really? What is?”

There’s a flicker of something across his face, but it passes in a heartbeat. “Speed. I love going fast.”

He’s struck by the irony—Greg’s job consists of moving at the slowest speeds possible.

“When you get on a freshly groomed trail and the conditions are right, you can really fly. Not that there’s anything wrong with a good powder day,” he says, nodding at the slope behind him. “Even more glorious because they’re so rare.”

Mycroft makes a snap decision. “Good day today, then?”

“Yeah, amazing.”

“So, I have a proposition for you.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Really? Bit cold to do it out here.”

Mycroft smiles and continues. “Not that sort of proposition. As much fun as I’m having on these trails, I’d rather watch you go down things like that.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m not going to abandon you so I can bomb down the slopes.”

“No, you’re right; that would be rude. I’m _asking_ you to, so I can see how it’s done right. Call it ‘learning by example’.”

Greg eyes him suspiciously.

“Look. It’s obvious you don’t get to do this very often, and it’s glorious to watch. Let’s just say I’m going to take a break by this tree and if you manage to take four or five runs before I’m done resting, all the better.”

“You’re nuts.”

“It’s my holiday. Perhaps I like sitting under a tree.”

“Most people prefer palm trees. On the beach.”

“I’m not most people,” Mycroft says, looking smug.

“You’ve got that right.”

“I’m completely serious; I’d love to watch you ski some more. If my fingers start turning blue, we can get back to the hands-on portion of the lesson. Skis-on. Whatever.”

Greg frowns.

“If you don’t _want_ to, of course—”

“No, of course I want to,” he says. “It just seems wrong to leave you sitting here while I go off and have fun. I’m supposed to be teaching you, after all.”

“Then consider it an apology for getting you into trouble last night.”

“Are you sure?” he says slowly. “Can’t say I wouldn’t love a few more runs like that.”

“Good,” Mycroft says, glad the conversation is starting to go his way. It’s worth getting cold fingers to see Greg deliriously happy. “I’ll be here when you’re finished.”

“All right. I’ll come back after each run. Call me on the radio if you need anything, and I’ll break land-speed records getting here.” He makes it sound like a joke, but Mycroft doesn’t doubt for a second that he’d do just that.

After three runs, Greg convinces him he’ll catch a cold if he sits still any longer, and they move to a different part of the mountain. He talks Greg into taking a few more ‘free’ runs in between his hesitant forays down the green slopes, and then they ski all the way down to the village. By the time they get there, his leg muscles are begging for mercy.

“You look exhausted,” Greg says.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow in sarcasm. “Thanks.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I hope I wasn’t too hard on you today; that was a lot of skiing.”

“No, I’ll be fine.” Greg had asked him more than once if he wanted to take the gondola down, and he’d refused. He blames his own bloody-mindedness for his aching calves and thighs.

“If you haven’t had enough of me, I’ll come back and massage them for you,” he says, nodding at his legs.

“Is it possible to have too much of you?” Mycroft laces the words with innuendo and Greg laughs.

“You didn’t seem to think so last night.”

“Touché,” says Mycroft with a grin, and they head back towards his hotel suite.

The leg massage starts out innocently enough, or at least it’s as innocent as it’s going to get, considering they both know where it’s going. His exhaustion falls away as Greg’s hands worth their magic, and soon he pulls him onto the sofa for a long kiss.

It’s getting pretty heated, hands slipping beneath thermal underwear, when Greg suddenly pulls away. “Your brother isn’t going to show up again, is he?”

Mycroft frowns, honestly unsure. “What day is it?” Greg must be affecting him if he can’t even remember that.

“Thursday. Why? Does he have a schedule?”

He huffs a laugh. “No, sadly I’d be the one who’d schedule something like that. He’s more likely to blow up his kitchen and expect me to drop everything to sort it out.” Then he frowns and adds, “Although he does have a sock index, so perhaps organisational tendencies are genetic.”

“Really?”

“‘Really’ to which part?”

“I’m not even sure,” Greg says, looking a little bemused. “So, Thursday’s a problem?”

He winces and scrubs his hand over his face. “I think there’s some sort of ‘dinner’ thing again, part of this ‘family togetherness’ nonsense. They’re doing them every night, but I’ve already skipped two of them. I can’t believe Sherlock’s going along with these things, to be honest—probably doing it to annoy me.”

Greg’s expression falls a little, and Mycroft’s life priorities snap into focus.

“If you’ll excuse me a second, I need to make a phone call.” Greg sits up so Mycroft can extract himself from their tangle of limbs on the sofa. Before he picks up the phone, he says, “Just to be clear, you’re hoping I _will_ stay, and not that Sherlock will get you out of it, right?”

He says, “What do you think?” in a cheeky voice. When his tongue darts out to wet his lips, Mycroft nearly drops the phone.

“Just checking.” He turns away so he can concentrate on entering the number. There’s no way he can carry on a conversation while Greg teases him.

Sherlock picks up after a few rings and wastes no time on formalities. With a brief laugh, he says, “If it isn’t the wayward son. We missed you last night.”

“Hello, Sherlock. Somehow I doubt that.”

“The dinner conversation isn’t nearly as interesting without you.”

“—isn’t nearly as interesting when you can’t tease me, you mean.”

“Mm,” Sherlock says. “Something like that.”

“Well, unfortunately I’ll be denying you that pleasure again this evening. Please give Mummy my regrets and tell her I’m enjoying my holiday.”

“Hot date again? I believe she had an entire safe sex lecture planned for tonight, slides and all.”

“I’m sure you’ll pick up a few tips.”

“And I’ll be sure to mock you in your absence.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” Mycroft says. “Have a lovely dinner.”

“You too—whatever it is you’re eating.”

“Sherlock!” He hopes Greg didn’t hear the comment through the phone.

“Have fun,” Sherlock replies, the words full of innuendo.

“Oh, I will. Good night.” Rolling his eyes, he sets the phone on the table. The tips of his ears burn from embarrassment.

“He only does it to rile you up,” Greg says.

“Unfortunately it works, but now I’m free of my dinner obligations. Any thoughts?”

“Order room service and see how long it takes before the neighbours complain about the noise?”

Mycroft squints, unsure if he’s joking.

“Whatever you want to do is fine,” Greg says, being more serious. “You didn’t hear it from me, but it’s nice just to have good company.” He doesn’t say it self-pityingly, but Mycroft catches the same sense of loneliness he’d heard when Greg had mentioned Pride Week the previous evening.

“I know what you mean.”

The room service waiter doesn’t blink when he wheels in the dinner cart and both of them are only in their ski thermals, looking a little dishevelled from earlier. He gives him a nice tip. They make it halfway through some not-too-shabby baked salmon before their eyes linger more on each other than they do on the food.

“You full?” Greg asks.

“Mm. I think I’ve had enough.”

“This is where I’m supposed to say something that sounds like bad porn film dialogue.”

“Sorry?”

“About eating you for dessert.”

“Oh,” he says, and laughs, because he isn’t fluent in ‘porn film’. Then he quips, “It sounds better than what they had on the menu.”

Greg chuckles and they head to the bedroom.


	10. Chapter 10

Greg wakes up with his cheek pressed against a pillowcase way too nice to be his own, and he remembers where he is. Light streams through the window. They’ve overslept, which isn’t unexpected since they’d stayed up half the night having sex.

It’s nice to lie here, half-asleep, and pretend this is something real.

The last few days have been exhilarating, and this effortless ‘thing’ between them—this spark, whatever it is—makes him feel worthy of his own existence for a change.

An errant curl falls across Mycroft’s forehead, and he smiles fondly. Mycroft seems constantly worried about his appearance, and sleep lets Greg admire him without making him anxious. He doesn’t understand why Mycroft worries; perhaps he’s not ‘conventionally’ attractive, but he’s got style and sex appeal in spades. And wit, and intelligence, and those adorable freckles across the tops of his shoulders…. And he’s a devil in bed.

_Don’t get too attached. He’s not taking you back in his suitcase._

Mycroft stirs into consciousness, looking confused for a second before giving him an unguarded smile.

“Morning, gorgeous.” He leans in and presses a chaste kiss against Mycroft’s lips.

“Morning.” He stifles a yawn. “Awake long?”

“No, just woke up. You sleep well?”

“Like the dead,” he says with a smile. “You wore me out.”

“I still think we could have gone one more round,” Greg teases.

“They’d have had to carry me out on a stretcher.”

“But what a way to go.”

They both laugh, and Greg wonders how he got so lucky. Or unlucky. It’s going to be lonely here without him. No sex, no companionship—and no job. He should be bitter about the job part, but he’s not. It seems like a fair trade for the week they’ve had together. Some people go their entire lives without having as much good company and good sex as he’s had in the last few days.

He’d considered Mycroft’s offer to talk to Joel, but there’s no way he can accept it. He can hear Joel’s whiny voice in his head: “Your rich boyfriend showed up, trying to get your job back.” Even if he gave it to him, Joel would never let him live it down. It was better just to move on.

Mycroft stretches out on the bed and groans a little.

“You okay?”

“Sore legs.”

“Sorry. Shouldn’t have pushed you yesterday.”

“It’s fine.” He thinks for a few moments and says, “Would you mind if we didn’t ski today? I think I should give them a break.”

“Of course.” He’s disappointed; he’d been hoping to spend the day with him, but he’s not going to push Mycroft beyond his limits.

“Is Vancouver worth the drive?”

He frowns, unsure of how to answer the question. Vancouver’s a big place, and some areas are more interesting than others. “I suppose it depends on which part.”

“Well, not the city per se, but I’ve heard the road down there is gorgeous.”

He raises his eyebrows in agreement. “Yeah, it’s lovely. Good day for it, too.” Pushing his luck, he adds, “Do you want a tour guide?”

Mycroft’s face lights up. “You’re welcome to come, but wouldn’t you rather ski?”

“Nah, you’re better company.” There’s no fresh snow in the mountains, but even if there were, his answer would be the same. He’d rather spend the day with Mycroft.

He can’t remember the last time he made the drive just for the scenery. He goes down there every few months when he needs something he can’t get in Squamish, but that’s not the same.

They set off in Mycroft’s car, the warm sun making the drive pleasant instead of freezing. Greg drives. Mycroft isn’t used to driving on this side of the road, and he doesn’t want him getting distracted by the scenery and running them over a cliff. As they drive away from the village, the road twists and turns its way through the valleys until they end up in the small town of Squamish, about forty-five minutes out.

“Last chance for the loo,” Greg says, nodding towards a Tim Horton’s restaurant at the traffic light. They stop and get a cup of tea for the road while they’re there. Mycroft politely declines the offer of a doughnut, but when Greg points out they never had breakfast, they get a small box of Timbits.

Mycroft eyes them suspiciously.

“They don’t have doughnut holes in England?”

“If they do, I’ve never had the pleasure.”

“You’ll like these. Breakfast of champions.” He takes one of the powdered-sugar Timbits and pops it in his mouth. It’s a good thing they’re still in the car park, because he inhales the powdered sugar the wrong way and nearly chokes on it. To add insult to injury, his coughing fit makes the front of his shirt look like the victim of an avalanche. He should have gone for glazed.

He’s gasping for air, tears in his eyes. Failing miserably at being sexy. Mycroft thrusts a cup of tea in his direction, but it’s too hot and he scorches the roof of his mouth. It burns his throat all the way down, but at least it stops the coughing.

He eventually catches his breath and uses a napkin to clean himself up.

“You all right?”

“Yeah.”

“Breakfast of champions, eh?” Mycroft says with a wry grin.

“Maybe you should try one of the non-powdered ones, unless you enjoy living dangerously.”

Mycroft takes a powdered one and doesn’t get a speck of sugar on him. Of course.

“I should have known you live dangerously,” he says with a chuckle—which makes him cough.

“You sure you’re all right?”

“Yeah, just went down the wrong way. So? You like ‘em?”

Mycroft takes a sip of tea. “Mm. They’re not bad.”

Greg takes it as a ringing endorsement. “Come on, let’s get going. We’re almost to the water.”

As they drive out of town, a massive rock formation looms over them, a sheer cliff face of solid granite.

Mycroft cranes his neck to see the top as they drive by. “Well, I’ll say one thing for the scenery: you can’t miss it.”

Greg chuckles. “No, it’s not exactly subtle.”

“Do people… climb that?” He’s still staring at it.

“Yeah, lots. It’s a big tourist attraction in the summer. Not so much at the moment.” The snow covering the top makes it look even more daunting, if that’s possible.

Mycroft shakes his head in wonder. “No, really. That’s just… do you mind if we stop?”

“Sure.” He pulls over to the side of the road.

He’s fumbling with his camera, walking backwards as he tries to get the whole thing in the picture at once. “I can’t believe people climb this.”

Greg shrugs; he’s seen people do all sorts of crazy things since he’s been here. “I’ve hiked it a few times, but I’ve never scaled the face.”

He stops snapping pictures long enough to look at him. “Really? You’ve been to the top? What’s the view like?”

“Not as good as the one from Whistler, but it’s still impressive. Nice view of the Sound.” Greg’s thrilled to see he’s having so much fun. He wasn’t expecting this much enthusiasm for a chunk of rock. “I think you’ll like the water.”

Mycroft gasps when he sees the fjords of Howe Sound—tree-covered mountain faces dropping precipitously into the shimmering water. Even the road itself is spectacular; it hugs the side of the mountain, blasted out of sheer rock.

“It’s gorgeous.” His voice echoes with quiet reverence. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Not bad, yeah?” He’s lived here for long enough that he rarely gives the scenery any thought, but it’s refreshing to see it through Mycroft’s eyes.

They stop at the first scenic overlook they find and Mycroft takes loads of pictures. He insists on taking a few of Greg as well, and he’s not sure what to make of that. Perhaps Mycroft can hold on to past romances without feeling sad. He’s never been able to manage it, but he hopes it’ll be different this time.

Mycroft peers over the edge of the stone wall, down the sheer cliff to the water below. “I can’t believe they blasted the road out of the mountain.”

Greg shrugs. “Stubborn lot.”

Despite the pleasant weather, the normally busy viewpoint is empty. The only sound comes from the cars that drive by every few minutes, skis and snowboards attached to their roof-racks. Mycroft walks back over to him and gives him a kiss.

“Thanks for doing this. I know you could be up there skiing.”

“It’s my pleasure. Haven’t been on a drive in ages.” He’s smiling, glad they decided to do it.

“This place is amazing. You’re really lucky to live here.”

Without thinking, Greg lets out a short, sarcastic laugh and immediately regrets it.

Mycroft frowns.

“Yeah, it’s nice,” Greg says quickly, trying to pretend he hasn’t just said ‘You’ve got to be joking’ in the most obvious non-verbal way possible. “Sorry, you get a bit jaded after a while.”

Mycroft sees right through him. “You said it was a long story—how you ended up here.”

“Yeah.” He’s torn. Part of him wants to tell Mycroft everything and see how he reacts—a litmus test, setting them both up for failure. The other part wants Mycroft to live in happy ignorance for the few days they have left together. He’s already hiding the truth about his job; he could make something up about his past.

“It’s a long drive,” Mycroft says. “We have time.”

“It’s not a very happy story.”

“That doesn’t make me less interested. It’s up to you.”

Greg heaves a sigh and attempts a weak smile. “You might not want to speak to me on the drive back.”

“If you could see some of the things I have to do for my job, you might not want to speak to me either.”

Greg’s pretty sure that’s not true.

“Look,” Mycroft says, “I know this is only a holiday thing, but I’m still interested in who you are.”

The phrase ‘holiday thing’ stings, even though it’s true. And obvious. And he already knows that’s all it is. But hearing it out loud somehow makes the truth of it more real. Harder to ignore.

But perhaps that makes him the perfect person to tell. The catharsis could be worth the last two days of Mycroft’s company—he’s had a hell of a run already. He’s been hiding from this for so long that he’s almost wiped it out of his daily existence, but it’s still there, festering underneath.

He walks over to the stone wall where Mycroft had been standing and looks down at the long drop to the water below. A brief, irrational thought tells him to jump. It’s not suicidal; it’s the same type of urge you sometimes get to jam a fork in the toaster to see what will happen. There’s a word for it, but he doesn’t know what it is.

“Did you know I skied in the Calgary Olympics?”

The shocked silence tells him Mr ‘I Stalk for a Living’ hasn’t been doing his job. Even a simple internet search turns up this part of his story.

“Placed eighth in the downhill. Fastest time ever recorded for a British skier.”

Mycroft joins him at the wall, still silent.

Greg turns to look at him. “I know. So what am I doing here as a ski instructor?”

“The thought did cross my mind,” he says tentatively.

“I did the World Cup circuit for another eight years. Did well enough to live off the winnings. Then one day I hit a patch of ice the wrong way and shattered my left leg in seventeen places. It took six months before I could walk without using crutches.” He smiles wanly. “I still set off metal detectors from all the pins they used to put me back together.”

“God. I’m sorry.”

He keeps going before his better judgement shuts him up. “After the accident, I got a job as a coach for the British Olympic team, but it didn’t last very long. I got addicted to the painkillers they were giving me for my leg.” He stares out over the water so he doesn’t have to make eye contact and waits for Mycroft’s reaction.

When he doesn’t say anything—it feels like years—he turns to face him.

Mycroft’s expression isn’t one of disgust or carefully schooled neutrality, but sadness. “What happened?”

Greg shrugs. “Well, the team found out and sacked me. I wanted to get as far away as possible, so I moved out here. Got clean. Learned how to ski again.”

He waits for the proverbial weight to be lifted from his shoulders, the moment of catharsis, but nothing happens. He still feels like a colossal fuck-up for running from his problems. He shouldn’t have said anything.

There’s a long pause before Mycroft says quietly, “People don’t understand addiction.”

It’s the understatement of the year, and Greg holds back a bitter laugh. “No, they don’t.”

“Sherlock’s addicted to cocaine. He still relapses sometimes.”

His eyes go wide. Now he’s the one with nothing to say.

“It’s a horrible family secret as far as my parents are concerned,” Mycroft continues, “but things are what they are. You have to forgive yourself and move on.”

“Well, if you count running halfway ‘round the world and taking a ski-bum job as ‘moving on’, then yeah, I have.”

He hasn’t and they both know it.

“You should forgive yourself.”

Anger flares inside him for a second—he hates that he’s that obvious, that Mycroft dares to tell him how to fix his life, that anything could be that _simple_ …. Then it ebbs, replaced by sadness. “It’s a lot to forgive.”

“Is it?”

_You’re not the one who threw your life away_.

They both stand there for a while, not saying anything.

Eventually, Mycroft says, “Are you cold?”

He is. Although it’s sunny, the temperature hovers barely above freezing.

They go back to the car, and Mycroft holds out the box of Timbits like an offering. Greg takes one.

“May I ask you a personal question?”

Greg expects something about the extent of his drug abuse and braces himself. He nods.

“When was the last time you told anyone about this?”

_Oh._ He frowns. “Not since I left England, fifteen years ago.”

“Then why now?” The unspoken _‘And why me?’_ hangs in the air.

“You asked. It seemed important.” _You seem important_. Accepting his past is a litmus test he assumed Mycroft would fail. Now that he’s passed, it’s a moot point—he still leaves in two days—but it’s nice to know that under different circumstances, this ‘thing’ might have had a chance.

Mycroft doesn’t push the issue further—for the best, since Greg isn’t sure what else to say.

“May I ask you another personal question?”

“Sure.”

“How does someone from Weston-super-Mare end up on the British ski team?” He sounds genuinely perplexed.

Greg laughs, glad for a lighter topic to defuse his existential crisis. It’s a valid question—his beach-town birthplace not being famous for its mountains, or in fact for much of anything. “Blind luck.”

“Not generally how they choose Olympic athletes.”

He grins. “Not usually. My dad’s sister lives in Switzerland. Blind stinking rich. She had me and my sister out to stay for three weeks when I was seven, and it turned out I was a natural at skiing.” He takes another Timbit. “She offered to send me to boarding school in Switzerland. I think she did it more to irritate my dad than anything.”

“The lengths to which siblings will go to irritate each other,” Mycroft says, with a knowing smirk.

“Yeah,” he says, laughing. “Anyway, I got really good and joined one of the junior racing teams. When I started winning, they put me in one of the hardcore training programs and I got tutored for my school stuff.”

“And you just… got on the Olympic team?”

“Well, there were tryouts, but yeah, essentially.”

“But wasn’t Calgary in ’88? You can’t have been very old.”

He’s surprised Mycroft knows when the games were. “Yeah, I was seventeen—youngest person ever to qualify for the team.”

“That’s amazing.”

“Thanks. It was fun while it lasted. Got to see some interesting places doing the World Cup.”

“Ah,” he says, a flash of comprehension crossing his face, “so this is where your rule about professional athletes comes from.”

“Yep. They’re self-obsessed bastards,” Greg says, smiling. “I’m allowed to say that because I was one.”

Mycroft looks thoughtful. “Are you still a self-obsessed bastard?”

“I’m a glorified babysitter for children prone to temper tantrums. I think it brought me down to earth a bit.”

“Are you calling me a child prone to temper tantrums?”

Greg’s thankful to be back into ‘playful banter’ territory. Things had been getting a bit too maudlin. “No. Thankfully I’m not teaching your brother.”

“Something for which we’re both thankful.”

“Want to keep driving? There’s a nice little park farther on.”

“Sounds great.”

The park is nestled in a lovely cove, the site of an old ferry landing.

Mycroft’s eyes go as wide as plates when three scuba divers walk out of the water onto the pebbly beach. “They’re… scuba diving,” he says, which Greg finds amusing because Mycroft never states the obvious.

“It’s a popular spot. They sank a boat here or something. For the fish.”

“It’s _February_ ,” he says, as if that explains his incredulity.

Greg shrugs. “It’s sunny.”

Mycroft frowns, at a loss, and they wander down to the old ferry landing.

On the way back, they stop for a sandwich at a small bakery in Squamish. The clientele is a mix of locals and skiers making the drive to Whistler. The latter are mostly twenty-something kids wearing pilled-out fleece and knitted beanies. Greg gives them a smile and he gets cheery grins in return; everyone is up here for a good day on the snow.

They make it back to Whistler around sunset, and Greg suggests they go for a walk around the village. It’s the polar opposite of Squamish: a series of high-end boutiques, galleries, flashy-looking ski gear shops, and expensive restaurants. That’s why he goes to Squamish for everything. Still, it’s pretty at night, and romantic in an odd sort of way.

They window-shop along the pedestrian-only streets with paper mugs of steaming cocoa. Mycroft stops at one of the high-end clothing stores, the sort with alpaca jumpers and tailored wool coats.

“Mind if we go in?”

“‘Course not.”

Mycroft goes off to look at the cufflinks.

_People still wear cufflinks?_ He’d love to see what Mycroft wears to work. It must be a lot more formal than he’d imagined. He has visions of the Connery-era _James Bond_ films.

Still a little chilly from the walk, he browses the scarves—gorgeous cashmere ones that would cost him a week’s wages. When he turns around, he catches Mycroft watching him, his cufflink-browsing finished. “Oh, sorry. You ready to go?”

“Not quite.” He walks over. “These are nice.”

“Yeah.” He pulls his hand back from the one he’s been fondling, a dark green tartan with red and white stripes. Mycroft picks it up and looks at it approvingly. “Bet you need a lot of scarves in London, what with the damp.”

Mycroft hums in vague agreement. He selects another one from the display, a deep shade of blue.

“Nice. Goes with your eyes.” He immediately kicks himself for saying something so cheesy, but Mycroft just turns to him and smiles.

He takes both of them to the counter, returning with a carrier bag containing two smart-looking boxes. When they get outside, he holds one out towards Greg.

“Happy birthday.”

“Sorry?” He has no idea what to make of this.

“Statistically, I have a one in 365 chance that it’s your birthday today. Long odds, true. If I’m wrong, then please consider this an early birthday present.”

He’s still holding the box in front of him, so Greg takes it, unsure of what else to do. “Um… thank you.” He’s overcome by the gesture and doesn’t know what to say without making an arse of himself. He opens the box and takes it out. Not surprisingly, it’s the green one he’d been fondling.

“If you’d prefer a different colour, he said they’ll be happy to exchange it.”

“No, it’s gorgeous.” Part of him wants to protest; he’d never buy this for himself, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t love to have it. The smooth cashmere feels like a warm cloud between his fingertips. “Are you sure?” He doesn’t want to say anything about the cost; that’d be tacky.

“As I said, happy birthday. I wouldn’t want you to catch cold out here.”

“Thanks, then. I love it.” He beams and wraps it around his neck. The soft warmth envelops him, and he lets out a contented sigh. “Oh, this is brilliant.”

“How close was I?”

“Only two weeks off.”

Mycroft smiles, and they head farther down the road.

“Do you have to go out to dinner with your family tonight?”

He laughs. “I think my happiness will trump her desire to hunt me down with knives.”

He’s getting used to Mycroft’s dry sense of humour, but—

“It’s just an expression.”

“Given what you’ve said, I wasn’t sure.”

“Sorry. She’s not murderous, just tenaciously pursuing a normal family dynamic.”

“A tall order with you two.”

Mycroft grins. “I suppose I have to give her credit for trying. But to answer your question, no. I don’t have to go out tonight.”

“Well, in that case, would you like me to make you dinner?”

* * *

 

They stop by the grocery store on the way back to his room to pick up the ingredients Greg needs. Dinner is delicious—chicken cordon bleu with mashed potatoes—and it rivals anything he’s had in expensive restaurants. When he asks Greg how he became such a good cook, he shrugs and replies, “You can’t live on take-away forever.”

This is a theory Mycroft has long held to be false, or at least one that has loopholes. He mostly ignores it by eating at a lot of fancy restaurants or the Diogenes. When a ‘table for one’ is too depressing of a prospect, he has those same establishments deliver proper meals to his flat in Kensington. Or—and this is a rare occurrence indeed, and one they’ll both deny enjoying—he’ll go out to dinner with Sherlock. But sometimes, and this evening is definitely one of those times, he thinks he should learn how to cook.

They finish the bottle of wine long after dinner is cleared away. A slow buzz, relaxing in the living room chatting easily about London traffic and Canadian weather and the strange habits of tourists. He sits in the armchair resting his feet on Greg’s thighs, and Greg works away the knots in his calves almost without thinking about it.

“That feels so good,” Mycroft says, his thoughts on the new Underground line abandoned as Greg’s fingers melt away a tight knot of muscle in his calf. “How’d you learn to do that?”

“Part of physical therapy when I had my accident.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—”

Greg smiles, unperturbed. “It’s fine. Comes in handy. Beats paying someone else to do it for me.”

“Does your leg still bother you?”

“Sometimes, when I don’t get up on the hill often enough. Too much teaching, not enough skiing.” Then he adds, smiling, “Current week excepted. I’d give up a foot of fresh powder for you.”

It’s the oddest compliment he’s ever received, and perhaps one of the sweetest in its sincerity. His heart twists. _If Greg didn’t live halfway around the world, I might reconsider my stance on relationships._

But Greg _does_ live halfway around the world and there’s nothing he can do about it, so it’s best to push that down—focus on the warm buzz and Greg’s hands and the look in those dark brown eyes that might best be described as hungry.

“You’re such a generous teacher,” he says, full of mock-schoolboy innocence. He takes his feet off Greg’s lap and leans forward in his chair. With the hint of a grin on his lips, he says, “What else can you teach me?”

Greg’s smile turns positively wicked. He comes over and straddles him, pinning his shoulders to the chair. After a hot, wet kiss that leaves him hungry for more, Greg says, “I’ll bet I can teach you how to beg.” The last word is a drawn-out, filthy promise.

* * *

Greg grinds against him, giving him what he wants and hinting at more. He’s not letting Mycroft move, shoulders pinned like this. He kisses him again, harder this time, taking what he wants—everything Mycroft seems desperate to give. He pulls away and Mycroft whines, but it turns into a moan when Greg sucks at the skin of his neck, vaguely rough from the day’s growth of stubble.

Mycroft arches into it to give him better access.

He licks his way up the crease of his jaw and gently nips his earlobe. “I’ll bet you’ve never begged for anything in your life, have you?” It’s a whispered breath against his ear, and Mycroft shudders beneath him.

“No.” His voice sounds small and strangled.

“Do you want to? For me?” He grinds his hips against his erection, just to drive the point home. He runs the tip of his tongue across Mycroft’s lips, teasing, pulling back and denying him when he cranes his neck up for a kiss. “All your lovely words reduced to ‘please’? Is that what you want?” He places an open-mouthed kiss at the side of his mouth but pulls back again. “Hm?”

Mycroft answers with a wondering look and slight nod, and Greg thinks _I’m already halfway there._ He gives him a wicked smile. “Oh, gorgeous, I’m going to take you apart.”

He kisses him, long and deep, because halfway there or not, he’s going to do this _right_ , and Mycroft’s kisses are soft like velvet and he can never get enough of them. He wonders which of them would beg first if all they did was sit here and kiss all night. He doesn’t like his odds. Luckily, that’s not the plan.

They shed their clothing as they head for the bedroom, and by the time he has Mycroft on the bed, they’re both naked. He straddles his thighs and lightly pins his wrists by his waist. “Change your mind yet?”

Mycroft smiles up at him. “Never.”

“Good.” He takes one of his wrists and guides it to the top of the headboard. He can tell from the angle that it won’t be comfortable. He lets it go. “No hands, okay? Put them behind your head or something.”

To make his point, he leans down and kisses him, only to pull away when Mycroft would normally draw him closer. Mycroft chases empty space in his wake but doesn’t reach for him. “Very good.” He gives him a crooked grin and leans in to kiss him again.

“You’re a tease,” Mycroft says, but he doesn’t sound upset about it.

“Yep.” He flicks at one of his nipples with his tongue and Mycroft rewards him with a moan and a slow thrust of his hips, his cock pressing against Greg’s own. He savours the pressure before climbing off to kneel next to him. He explores his body with his mouth and hands, just as he had the other night, but this time—with Mycroft unable to reciprocate—it’s as if Mycroft is a feast laid out for him and him alone.

He’s careful to avoid Mycroft’s groin, which turns the rest of his body into one huge erogenous zone. As he rubs across the planes of his abdomen, Mycroft’s cock begs for attention, even if the words haven’t yet crossed his lips. It takes all his willpower not to swallow him down, let Mycroft fuck his throat raw. Who cares if he’s the one begging and not Mycroft? But it’s not part of the plan. Not for this round, at least.

He turns back to Mycroft’s face. If he keeps looking at his cock, his lips are going to be around it in a hot second. He licks the tip of one finger and runs it across Mycroft’s lips, dry from the shallow breaths he’s taking. He unexpectedly sucks Greg’s finger into his mouth, and the suction and soft texture of his tongue make him gasp.

Mycroft looks up at him greedily. “I want you in my mouth.”

The man’s voice is made of sin.

He licks his own lips, gone dry with anticipation, and lets Mycroft suck another finger into his mouth. As stupid as it sounds, he’s reluctant. This has the potential to derail his goal almost as much as the other thing. Still. Just the visual is doing things to him, Mycroft’s lips stretched around his thick fingers, cheeks hollowed out. His cock weighs in with a decisive vote on the matter.

“Fingers not enough for you?”

Mycroft shakes his head.

“If you insist,” Greg says, and shifts so he’s in a half-crouch over his chest, bracing himself against the wall. With his other hand, he holds his cock just out of reach of Mycroft’s lips, curious to see how much he’ll work for it.

Mycroft cranes up, licking away the drop of liquid gathering at the slit, then he flicks at the underside with the tip of his tongue.

A jolt of pleasure runs through his spine and ‘curiosity’ goes out the window. He wants his mouth around him, and he wants it now. He makes an undignified noise and pushes the head of his cock into Mycroft’s mouth, where his lips seal around it with a satisfying ‘pop’. He resists the urge to push any deeper, letting Mycroft work him over with his lips and tongue, just the head. Enjoying the sensations. Enjoying the view. Mycroft does an admirable job considering the circumstances—no hands, strange positioning—but this isn’t what he’s got planned for their evening. He wants this to be about Mycroft, not him. So when his muscles start to burn from the awkward position, he reluctantly pulls away.

“Come back,” Mycroft says, sounding disappointed.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going far.”

Greg notes with satisfaction that Mycroft still hasn’t moved his hands from beneath his head, despite a drop of saliva that’s dribbled out of range of his tongue and down his neck.

“Here, let me get that for you,” he says, and kisses his way up the line of Mycroft’s jaw.

Mycroft makes the most delicious moan.

“Christ. I’ll be the one begging if you keep that up,” he says, kissing him properly. Part of him wants to draw this out as long as possible. He likes watching him unable to reciprocate properly, but what he has in mind should be even more effective in taking him apart.

He runs his hands across his chest and belly, once again steering clear of his cock. A whine begins to form on Mycroft’s lips, but it’s replaced by a surprised gasp as Greg reaches down and cups his balls. He rolls them gently in his palm, thumb caressing the skin at the base of his cock, and he melts back into the bed.

“You like that, yeah?”

“Mm.” After a second, there’s a tentative, “Touch me? Please?”

Greg chuckles. This isn’t what he means by ‘begging’, and it’s endearing if Mycroft thinks it is. “Soon, gorgeous. Soon enough.” He leans down and whispers, “Do you want to top or bottom?”

In that voice that should be illegal, he says, “I want you to fill me up.”

The words send a jolt of need through his core. “Well, since you asked so nicely, I think that can be arranged,” he says lightly, trying to stall his body’s urge to flip him over and fuck him through the mattress before either of them can take another breath.

Mycroft gives him a wicked grin. “How do you want me?”

Greg’s mouth goes dry. “Turn over and put your arse in the air.” Clarifying, he adds, “Shoulders down.” It’s a vulnerable position, literally putting yourself on display, and he wonders for a moment if Mycroft will do it.

He does, and it’s a gorgeous sight to behold. His pale skin, the globes of his arse, his full cock and balls hanging tantalisingly between his legs. Once again, thoughts of getting Mycroft to stuff his cock down his throat threaten to derail his plans, but he forces himself to focus. “Yeah, like that. God, you’re gorgeous.”

Mycroft’s head rests on the pillow and his knees are wide enough apart for Greg to shuffle between them. The position spreads his arse cheeks wide, his furled pink hole on prominent display. “Fuck,” Greg mutters, “you have no idea how good you look.” He licks a finger and runs it from the base of his balls up to his entrance, circles his hole a little without much pressure. Mycroft shivers at the initial contact and makes encouraging little moans.

Greg smiles and thinks, _Just wait._ Then he decides that waiting’s overrated, grasps his arse with both hands, and dives in. When tongue meets flesh, Mycroft jerks, his spine rolling like a wave, pulling away for a second but then pushing back for more.

There’s a stream of breathless, half-formed expletives, probably incomprehensible even if they weren’t muffled by a pillow.

He hasn’t even really _done_ anything yet. He’s just tonguing the outside, teasing, playing, and apparently blowing Mycroft’s mind.

“You okay?” he asks, because it seems like he should. He doesn’t want him to hyperventilate or something. He knows what he’s doing feels good, but Mycroft’s reactions seem out of proportion and it’s throwing him.

“Don’t stop,” Mycroft says. “No one’s… _Christ.”_

“Really?” He wasn’t expecting that. “Shame on them.” And he means it, but he’s also thrilled because he’s the one who gets to show him _first._

He stiffens his tongue and presses it against the ring of muscle, slowly pushing in, working him open, and Mycroft’s making these _sounds._ Fucking hell. Talk about positive feedback. He holds his cheeks wide as he pulls back a little, tonguing around the edge, dipping in with little flicks of his tongue that make the muscles in Mycroft’s arse twitch.

“You like that, yeah?”

“Oh, God,” and it’s more a moan than a reply.

He takes it as his cue to keep going.

It’s been ages since he’s done this, and his tongue starts to get tired, so he lubes up one of his fingers and presses it inside. He’s able to go deeper, and the silky heat feels incredible around him, a promise of what’s to come. He makes long, slow strokes with his finger before he draws it out and starts again with his tongue. He’s looser now; there’s more give as he pushes inside, burying his face between the perfect skin of Mycroft’s arse cheeks.

He works both thumbs in, opening him up, and runs his tongue along the stretched skin, kisses and licks into him where he’s held open. There’s a keening sound from the pillow.

He pulls back for a second so he can see, because he’s dying to look, and God he’s gorgeous, all stretched open like this, so slick and ready.

“You like me eating you out?” he asks, because the keening noise is more of a whine now that his mouth is gone.

“Mm…” comes a muffled plea.

“Want me to make you come like this? Take you apart with my fingers and my tongue?” He licks another long stripe around his hole and pushes his tongue in deep, just to make his point. Mycroft’s legs quiver beneath him. “Hm? Tell me.”

Mycroft starts to mumble into the pillow again but Greg stops him.

“Prop yourself up so I can hear you.”

“I… it’s…”

“Enjoying it?”

“Yeah…”

“That’s what counts….” He smooths a hand down Mycroft’s flank, grounding him. “Whatever you want, gorgeous.”

“I want you to fuck me,” he says, but the words are more an abstract concept than a command.

“Now?”

“Not yet.”

Greg chuckles, glad he’s enjoying it so much. He is too; he’s hard as hell. If they’re going to fuck after this, it’s going to take some serious willpower to last longer than five seconds. “You comfortable like this?”

“Mm.” Mycroft’s extensive vocabulary goes out the window when he’s really turned on.

Greg runs his hand along Mycroft’s erection, and he’s shocked by how hard he his, how wet. His mouth waters as his fingers skate across the slippery head, and he thinks how easy it would be to slide underneath him, let Mycroft fuck his face. He pushes his thumb a little deeper into his arse, almost to remind himself there’s a larger goal here.

He’s not sure which action provokes the moan.

As much as he’d love to suck him off, he knows better than to give him a choice. If he gets that cock in his mouth, he not going anywhere until Mycroft comes down his throat. Perhaps the next round, if he’s lucky enough.

When he slides his other thumb back in, there’s no resistance at all. He slowly works his thumbs apart again, curling his tongue inside the edges of his widening hole. Mycroft squirms beneath him and makes exquisite noises.

“Christ, the way you’re opening up for me. It’s beautiful. You like my tongue buried in your arse?”

“God, yes.” It comes out as an exhale more than words.

“Can I stretch you wider? I want to see you all open and gaping for me, so I can slide right in and take you nice and deep. Do you want that?”

And in that low, sinful voice that makes his toes curl, Mycroft says, “Yes, and I want you to fuck me so hard you split me in two—”

Greg’s brain goes offline, sure he hasn’t heard right, or that his brain projected what it wanted to hear, or—

“—and you can start by telling me every filthy detail of what you’re going to do.”

It takes him a second to find words, and they aren’t very eloquent. “Fuck me,” he mumbles, astounded.

“Perhaps for the second round,” Mycroft replies cheekily, even though they both knew what Greg meant.

He hadn’t pegged Mycroft for getting off on dirty talk—or rough sex—but he’s more than happy to oblige. “Well, first I’m gonna worship this arse of yours like it’s a fucking temple.” Because _that’s_ what tonight is all about, and watching Mycroft come undone is more glorious than he could have imagined. “Gonna fuck you open with my tongue, shove it as deep as I can inside your gorgeous hole. Make you moan for it.”

He slips in three fingers instead of his thumbs. They slide right in. “See, look how loose you are already, opening up for me. God, I’m gonna take you so deep.” He fucks him slowly at first, feeling out his prostate and gliding over it. Mycroft grunts and shudders beneath him. “Yeah, you like that, huh? Gonna feel so good when I pound into you with my cock.” He speeds up, getting him used to the pace, then he pushes them in to the hilt and _twists._ Mycroft gasps and arches his back.

“More,” he begs.

“You really do want me to split you in half, don’t you?” he says, amused. He takes his fingers out for long enough to drizzle on some more lube and adds a fourth. Mycroft whimpers as he’s stretched even wider. Greg fucks him slowly a few times, using his thumb to rub along the outside of his stretched hole at the same time. “Can’t believe you can take this. It looks amazing.”

He pulls his fingers out, and his entrance is wide, gaping, so eager for him. Christ, he could probably get his cock in there and his thumbs as well, and the thought strikes something primal in him. He wants to fill Mycroft up as much as his body can stand. Take him utterly.

He shoves his tongue back into his arse, eager to have as much as he can, to devour him. His cock throbs, desperate to join in. He has an idea, and hopes Mycroft isn’t going to hate him for it.

“God, I want you inside me,” Mycroft begs. “Please.”

 He grabs a condom and rolls it on, lubes up. “Like this or facing?”

“This.” Then he adds, his voice wickedly low, “Greg?”

“Mm?”

“I meant what I said. Don’t hold back.”

The thought of driving into him hard and fast makes him _need_ so much it hurts. “You’re sure?” he says, just in case.

“Mm, want to feel you _own_ me.”

“Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath, wondering if he’s going to survive this.

He’s going to need more leverage if Mycroft wants a proper pounding. “C’mere.” He climbs off the bed and pulls him back to the edge so his arse is lined up and waiting. He pours some extra lube on his cock, just in case. “Grab a pillow. You’ll need something to hang on to.”

He can’t resist spreading him open one more time. He’s so soft and ready. “God, you’re gagging for it. I’m gonna fuck you so hard.” Then, with one hand on his waist and the other steadying his cock, he pushes into him in one long slide. Mycroft is all silky-wet heat around him, burning like a furnace. The pressure around his long-neglected cock feels divine, and it’s all he can do not to let his body take over, fuck into him until he comes; it wouldn’t take long. He stays there, bottomed-out, and gives the base of his cock a hard squeeze, driving away the threat of orgasm. He needs to make this last.

“Please,” Mycroft begs below him, “move.”

Greg pulls out almost all the way and snaps his hips back in, hard.

There’s an exhaled moan of delight.

Greg, who’s still in danger of coming, decides to talk him through it, drag it out a bit while he gets himself under control. “Like that, do you? Like me pounding into your sweet arse like that?” He snaps his hips again and the sound of their skin making contact hangs in the air. “Filling you ’til you burst?” Another thrust.

Mycroft whimpers an affirmative.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have it like this?” he teases, switching to slow, gentle thrusts, all finesse and tenderness.

“Harder,” he begs again. “Please.”

“I’ll make you a deal.” This is where he hopes Mycroft doesn’t kill him. “I’ll fuck you halfway into next week if you promise not to come.”

Mycroft makes a confused sound. He looks back—or tries to—it’s hard to do on all fours with Greg’s cock shoved up his arse.

“Don’t worry, I’ll let you come, but you’re going to fuck my throat. And not until I’m done ravaging this gorgeous arse of yours.”

“I… don’t think I can hold back.”

“Let me worry about that. Besides, you wanted to learn how to beg, remember?”

There’s silence as that sinks in.

“Trust me, you’ll be begging me to let you come.” He snaps his hips again, earning him another grunt of pleasure. “Deal? You don’t have to, mind.”

“Deal.”

Greg beams. He’s always wanted to try edging someone, but he’s never had the chance. “Tell me when you get close.”

He braces himself against Mycroft’s waist and pounds into him with a series of short, hard thrusts. It’s urgent, desperate—more like their blowjob in the lodge, not the languorous, second-round fucks they’ve been having the rest of the week. Mycroft pushes up into him greedily, and Greg can’t take his eyes off the way Mycroft’s hole is swallowing up his cock so effortlessly. The sounds of their skin, their grunts, the tang of sweat and sex: he files them all away. He’s going to be wanking to this for months.

Greg rarely comes from penetration alone, but Mycroft is rock hard. When Greg wraps a hand around him—which admittedly is a huge tease—he _wails._

“Stop…”

Greg circles the base of his cock and squeezes instead, and Mycroft sighs.

“Thanks,” he says, breathing hard.

“You’ll come just from me fucking you?”

“Yeah.”

“Christ. Then you definitely need to tell me. Still okay?”

“Yeah… but I thought you were going to fuck me into next week?” he goads.

“Oh, you want things a little rougher?” He shoves Mycroft’s knees apart, the position tightening his hole, then he thrusts back in so hard it pushes him forward a few inches on the bed. “Get back here,” he says, wrapping a hand around one of his thighs and dragging him back before he slams into him again. “This want you wanted? No mercy?”

Mycroft’s breath catches each time he bottoms out, and Greg’s watching him, looking for a nod or something, worried it’s too much.

“Don’t stop.” It’s half-reassurance, half-command.

He smiles. “Knew you’d love it. Let’s see what you can take.” He drives into him again, not holding back, and Mycroft pushes back to meet him. They build it into a rhythm, both of them getting lost in it. He knows Mycroft likes to hear him talk, but his brain is beyond that.

He’s thrusting, all purpose and drive, and then he looks down at the point where their bodies join, and it sucks the air from his lungs. He can’t keep the wonder out of his voice. “ _God_. I wish you could see this. It’s amazing.” There’s something hypnotic about the push-pull of his cock and Mycroft’s skin. The sight of it is almost enough to tip him over to orgasm, and he grasps his own cock to stave it off.

“Christ,” he says, breathless, “are you holding out on me? I think I’m going to come before you do.”

Mycroft—the bastard, the gorgeous, amazing bastard—laughs. “Beg.”

“Wha—?”

“Beg, and I’ll let you come. Then I’ll fuck your throat.”

“Oh, fuck.” He gives a quick laugh. So much for _him_ edging _Mycroft._ If he had more control, better control, _something_ , he’d try and hold out. But he doesn’t. And Mycroft clearly has more self-control than anyone on the planet.

“Please, Mycroft. Fuck. Please let me come. Just let me come.”

“Why?”

“I want you to fuck my throat.”

“You can have five more thrusts. If you don’t come by then, I’ll make you use your hand on both of us.”

_Buggering fuck_ , if that isn’t the hottest thing ever. He comes in three. The force of it makes his toes curl.

Gasping, he doesn’t even bother with the condom, just drops to his knees so Mycroft can get off the bed and stand in front of him. Then his mouth is full of cock, fingers rough in his hair, and he can’t breathe and it’s glorious. He lets Mycroft use his mouth, fast and brutal, and it’s almost too soon before he’s coming down his throat in hot, thick spurts.

He sits back on his heels with a dazed grin on his face, catching his breath. Mycroft looks equally well-fucked.

Mycroft gives a small huff of a laugh. “Well, that was nice,” he says, the understatement of the year. “Sometimes I like it a bit rough.” His tone is so matter-of-fact, they might as well be discussing the weather.

“Yeah, something to be said for it.” Greg stands up and grins. “You okay?”

Mycroft shifts his hips a little, self-assessing. “Surprisingly, yes.” Then he gives him a sly smile. “I could write sonnets about your tongue.”

Greg beams at him—“Glad you enjoyed it.”—and they head to the loo to clean up.

When Mycroft says, “Perhaps I could reciprocate,” he decides sleep is for the weak.


	11. Chapter 11

It’s almost as if Greg has moved in. They share a breakfast of eggs and toast, and—not for the first time—he wishes he could go back home to the same thing: to Greg’s kind face across the dining room table; to laughing conversations, and sex, and even the inevitable arguments about work. All the things people in relationships have, good and bad. He’d take the bad if it meant he could hold on to all of this.

But there’s no way Greg would pull up stakes and move to England, away from his skiing, and Mycroft isn’t vain enough to think Greg would do it for _him_. He might not be completely happy here, but he has a life. Besides, his own job…. It doesn’t bear thinking about; it would never work.

He’s been silent for too long, because Greg looks up from his scrambled eggs and says, “Penny for ‘em.”

The last thing he wants to do is talk about any of it, so he pastes on his best fake smile and says, “I think my legs are up for some skiing today.”

Greg beams. “Super! It looks like a nice day up there. Bit of fresh snow overnight.”

Mycroft’s phone beeps with a text message, and he reads it with a huff. “The wolves are circling. Sherlock says if I’m not at dinner, my mother’s threatening to downgrade my flight home to coach.”

Greg chuckles. “Can she do that?”

“Over my dead body.”

“If you were dead, she could stick you in the cargo hold.”

Mycroft laughs, despite his irritation. “I suppose I should make an effort. How do you feel about dinner with my parents?” Greg looks alarmed, and Mycroft back-pedals as quickly as possible. “Of course not, sorry. Perhaps we could meet up again after dinner?”

Greg thinks for a second and says, “Well, does it have to be dinner?”

“Sorry?”

“We could all meet on the hill and go skiing together. Have lunch in the restaurant at the lodge.”

“Aren’t you forgetting? They can ski, and I can’t.”

“I’ve been doing a rotten job all week if you still think you can’t ski. How many times have they been skiing before?”

“Just the one week, almost twenty years ago.”

“I’ll bet you a Kahlúa cocoa that you’re just as good as they are. Do you know what parts of the mountain they’ve been on?”

“Sherlock said something about Harmony Bowl earlier in the week.”

“There you go. You’ve already been out there once and you were brilliant.”

It’s not a bad idea. It’s a lot better than losing out on an evening with Greg. “I should warn you: Sherlock will be insufferable.”

“You say that like I should be surprised.”

“No, really. He has no boundaries. For all I know, he’ll give you the third degree about our sex life.”

“Oh, even better,” he says, chuckling. “I’ll make him sorry he ever brought it up.”

He cringes. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“People shouldn’t ask questions if they don’t want the answers. Long, detailed, explicit answers.”

He thinks he’s teasing, but he honestly isn’t sure. “Perhaps this isn’t such a good idea.”

“Don’t worry. I promise I won’t say anything embarrassing in front of your parents.” He grins wickedly, and Mycroft is both charmed and terrified at the same time.

He phones Sherlock to coordinate things, secretly hoping to wake him up. He’s surprised when he picks up on the first ring.

“Mycroft. Good morning.” He sounds wide awake, and he wonders for a second if he’s slept at all. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s gone for days without sleep on some manic jag.

“Morning. Sleep well?”

“Like the dead, probably because I was nowhere near your room.”

He bristles at the obvious taunt. Truth be told, they’d been making quite a lot of noise last night, but Sherlock was in the other _building_ and has no way of knowing that. He should let it go, but he can’t. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m not jealous. My body is just transport.”

“So you keep saying, which is why I’m confused by your endless curiosity about my sex life. Do you need some guidance? Tips, perhaps. Optimal angles for insertion.”

Greg nearly spits out his tea and collapses in a fit of giggles.

“Why are you calling, exactly?” says Sherlock, sounding exasperated.

 _Ha. Point to me._ “To suggest a change of plans. Instead of dinner, we should meet on the hill and go skiing, and then have lunch at the restaurant in the lodge. It’s quite nice.” He neglects to mention the superb blowjob he received there, since it’s not on the standard lunchtime menu.

“Are you sure? I don’t fancy spending all morning on the beginner hill.”

“I’m shocked by your lack of faith in my abilities,” he says sarcastically. “Greg suggested we could go out to Harmony Bowl.”

“Well, if you think your ‘abilities’ can handle that, I don’t see why not.”

“Well, run it by them, will you? It would be nice for all of us to ski together on our last day.”

“Bring your boyfriend.”

He mentally kicks himself. Of course Greg will be there, but he hates to give Sherlock the satisfaction of complying with a request. It’s a poor move in their conversational chess game. “He’s dying to see you again,” Mycroft says sarcastically, the best closing he can muster. “Bye.”

He gets a text about fifteen minutes later: _We’ll meet you in the lodge at ten. -SH_

“You sure you’re up for this?” he says, refilling Greg’s tea.

“I think you’re the one having doubts.”

Mycroft shrugs and concedes the point. He isn’t sure if Greg’s attitude stems from bravery or ignorance. _He_ wouldn’t want to meet his parents. Still, to Greg, they’re just another couple of tourists. It’s not as if they’re dating, not as if this is a serious relationship. He’d rather not examine his own nervousness about the encounter too closely.

Their day off the slopes has done wonders for his legs. They ski down a short trail near the lodge for a warm-up. It’s a quick run and he doesn’t fall once. He smiles to himself—the mere thought of ‘a quick run’ would have made him laugh only a few days ago.

As they ride the lift back up, Greg puts his hand on Mycroft’s thigh and gives it an affectionate squeeze. “You’re getting really good. Your legs sore?”

“No. It’s amazing.”

“You’re getting used to it. Just new muscles to be trained.” Greg checks his phone and says, “Almost time to meet them. Can I offer a piece of advice?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t let him bait you.”

“Sorry?”

“Sherlock. He’ll want to prove he’s better than you are. You’re getting good, but I don’t want to see you push yourself and get hurt.”

“Ah. I see you’ve noticed the antagonistic nature of our relationship.”

“It’s okay to let him act like a ten-year-old. If you don’t take the bait, he’ll end up looking ridiculous.”

“Interested in sibling dynamics, are you?”

“More interested in seeing you get through the day without falling down—which you can do if you don’t try anything outrageous.”

“Point taken, thank you.” He appreciates Greg’s perception; his natural competitive instinct would have kicked in and pushed him beyond his limits.

When they get to the lodge, Sherlock is just inside the door, but his parents are nowhere in sight.

Sherlock takes one look at Mycroft and snickers. “Nice helmet.”

“Concussions. Bad news for brain work,” he fires back, offering a smug grin.

“Only a problem if you fall down.”

“Or if someone ploughs into you.”

Greg glances between them as if he’s watching a tennis match but doesn’t step in as a referee.

Mycroft looks around but doesn’t see his parents. “Where are they? Aren’t they coming?”

“They went upstairs for some tea.”

“Ah.”

Sherlock examines Greg—in an appraising way that comes off as scandalous and rude—then says, “Nice to see you again. Has my brother been driving you crazy all week?”

He responds with a dangerous grin. “That’s not the phrase I’d use, no. Were you hoping for a detailed rundown of our off-slope activities?”

Mycroft suppresses a giggle.

“Dear God, no,” Sherlock says, and the disturbed look on his face indicates Greg has won the round.

His parents show up a few moments later wearing dated ski suits—the one-piece monstrosities favoured in the late eighties. Sherlock must have bought a new outfit, which isn’t surprising; Mycroft can’t imagine his vanity taking such a blow.

“Hello, dear.” Mummy pulls him close to place a kiss on his cheek and he reluctantly allows it. “It’s so nice to see you. I was beginning to think you’d gone back to London on the sly.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says with mild sarcasm, “were the dinners mandatory?”

“Of course not. The important thing is that you’re having fun.” Then, without missing a beat, she segues into, “And you must be Greg.”

Mycroft glares at her.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs Holmes.”

She doesn’t offer her name or any other type of proper introduction, just says, “Mycroft hasn’t told us _anything_ about you.”

Greg smiles cheerfully and replies, “I find discretion to be a fine quality in a person, don’t you?”

The tension eases from her shoulders and she laughs. “Of course. Lovely to meet you. I’m Violet. This is my husband, Siger.”

He’s passed the ‘Stand Up to Mummy’ test. Even Sherlock looks impressed.

They defer to Greg’s knowledge of the ski area, and he takes them to some runs they’ve never tried before. As predicted, Sherlock tries to goad him into things he shouldn’t be doing, but once he realises Mycroft isn’t playing along, he gives up.

He almost falls a couple of times, but he catches himself at the last minute and his dignity remains intact. He’s doing just as well as his parents, and almost as well as his brother. It’s immensely gratifying. Even Sherlock comments on his skill and grudgingly compliments Greg on his teaching abilities. And wisely refrains from bringing up the topic of sex.

Greg’s charm works wonders on his parents, and they’re all getting along famously by the end of the day. When they’re finally alone, Mycroft says, “Brilliant work. Have you considered working for the government? You handle interrogation well.”

“I’ll keep it in mind. Always wanted to be a spy.”

“Really?”

“Well, no. Not since I was six.”

They’re back at the base of the mountain, standing there with all their gear. The rest of his family has gone off to some fancy Asian fusion place for dinner. They’d been invited—Greg included—and had politely declined. 

“So, should I go back and get changed?” Greg says hesitantly, and Mycroft isn’t sure how to respond. Part of him wants to spend their evening relaxing in the room, but another part wants to do something special for their last night. Perhaps a dinner on their own somewhere. Something.

“Would it be all right—um, would you like to go to dinner? I don’t want to cause any problems with your job again.”

Greg gives a quick laugh. “No, don’t worry about that.” He thinks for a second, probably calculating travel times, and says, “I can meet you here in an hour, if that works.”

“Or we could shower at mine, and then drive to your place for a change of clothes. No point in waiting for the bus if you don’t have to.” It’s starting to snow, and he can’t imagine Greg standing at a bus stop in a suit. More to the point, he _can_ imagine it, and it’s an awful thought. It would ruin his shoes, for one thing.

“That sounds like a lot more fun, especially the shower part.” His expression is positively wicked.

A warm buzz of anticipation replaces his fatigue from the day’s skiing. They hurry back as fast as they can, shedding everything modesty will allow before they make it to the room: gloves, helmets, the fuzzy things that keep your neck warm. As soon as the suite door closes behind them, they’re all over each other. They drop their gear to the floor and Greg’s kissing him, desperate and hungry, and Mycroft tries not to think about leaving this all behind tomorrow.

Mycroft buries his fingers in his hair and pulls him closer, just as greedy, lost in the sensation and giddiness of the moment. Greg tastes like the Kahlúa cocoa he’d bought him earlier, sweet and dark and delicious.

Greg unzips his coat and shrugs out of it and then starts in on Mycroft’s clothes. They’re cock-blocked by the ski boots. When Greg almost falls over trying to undo them without looking, they relent for a few minutes and then strip down to their thermals. Greg’s eyes sweep up his body, and Mycroft silently thanks the woman at the ski shop for suggesting the tighter ones.

“You look delicious,” Greg says as he presses him back against the wall, one hand cupping his arse. “Even better without those clothes.” He grinds against him, and Mycroft can’t help but moan.

Greg slides his hand across Mycroft’s chest, his touch like fire on his winter-chilled skin. “We need to warm you up,” he says as he runs a finger across his nipple, peaked from the cold. He ducks his head to take it in his mouth, flicking against it with his tongue and sucking at it. His palms skate across the bare skin of his abdomen.

He shivers—from the attention to his sensitive nipples, not the cold. “That’s not helping,” he says, gooseflesh prickling down his arms.

He looks up at him and grins, pressing his hand against Mycroft’s erection. “It will if you let me keep going.” He starts to go to his knees but Mycroft pulls him up.

“Change of venue. Now.” He heads for the shower pulling a laughing Greg behind him.

Mycroft turns the water in the huge, marble-tiled shower to full-on hot. By the time they’re completely naked, steam billows over the glass door. He moves the temperature down from ‘scalding’ to ‘bloody hot but bearable’ and steps inside. His muscles melt as the heat cascades over him, warming him from the outside in. When Greg steps in behind him, he’s almost surprised to remember he’s not alone.

He remembers soon enough when Greg pulls him in for a kiss.

When Greg presses him against the wall, drops to his knees, and takes him in his mouth, he’s sure he’ll never forget this shower for as long as he lives.

* * *

“I don’t know about you,” Greg says as he dries himself off with a fluffy towel, “but between the skiing and the sex, I could use a nap. I must be getting old.” His hair sticks up in all directions and looks adorable. He wonders what Greg looked like when he was younger—a punk phase, perhaps. 

“Mm, but we’ll have to eat sometime. A good steak and a bottle of wine—it’s almost the same as a nap, but with linen tablecloths.”

Greg eyes his ski clothes and wrinkles his nose. “Yeah, I just wish I didn’t have to go back to mine to change.”

“It won’t take long. You’ve already showered.” The word seems scandalous in this context. 

“Yeah, if I ‘shower’ again, we won’t get anywhere. I’ll have my wicked way with you in my flat, and then we’ll be stuck there and the sheets aren’t nearly as nice.” Greg wraps the towel around his waist and starts gathering up his clothes.

When Greg bends over to pick up his thermals, his towel drops open and reveals a deliciously sculpted thigh—as if his towel-clad arse wasn’t enticing enough. “God, you’re sexy.” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. When did he start voicing his thoughts? Not a good habit.

Greg looks back at him with a cheeky grin. “You’re not half bad yourself.” He sits on the bed and dumps his clothes next to him. “What’re you going to wear?”

Mycroft stands there in his boxers and flips through the suits he’s brought—mostly two-piece, nothing as formal as he usually wears. He’s on holiday, after all. Mummy had asked him ‘not to go overboard’.

Greg saunters up behind him. He reaches out to feel one of the suits, not-so-casually placing his other hand on Mycroft’s arse. “Mm, very nice.”

“My anatomy, or the suits?”

“Both.” Greg rubs the light wool between his fingers and makes appreciative little sounds. “Do you always dress like this?”

“Almost never.” Technically it’s true—his real suits are far nicer—but he’s hoping Greg will take him for less stuffy than he is.

“That’s a shame. It’s a good look for you.”

He raises his eyebrows, pleasantly surprised, and picks out a charcoal-grey jacket with a pristine white shirt and a red tie. “How about this?”

“You’d look good in a paper bag.”

“They’re not in season at the moment.”

Greg chuckles. “You’re having me on, aren’t you?”

“About the bags?”

“No, about what you wear. How many pairs of jeans do you own?”

He pauses too long for any sort of plausible deniability. “What?”

“Jeans. You know, the blue denim things. I’ll bet you don’t have any.”

He shrugs. Of course he doesn’t.

Greg looks amused. “This is slumming it for you, isn’t it?” His tone isn’t mocking; it’s curious.

“I’m not _entirely_ slumming it. On the weekends, I don’t even wear a jacket.”

“Oh, you minx, you.” Greg walks up behind him and puts his hands on Mycroft’s hips. Then he whispers in his ear, “Do you ever roll up your sleeves?”

“Not usually, but I’m sure I could be persuaded.”

Greg kisses his neck and lingers there. Kisses it again. Mycroft closes his eyes and commits it all to memory—his touch, his breath, the warmth of Greg’s body pressing against his own. Come tomorrow, the memory is all he’ll have.

“Tell me what you wear to work.”

The command shouldn’t be as arousing as it is. “Really?” he asks in disbelief.

“Yes, really.”

“Suits. Expensive ones.”

Greg hums approval against his neck, slides his mouth up and nibbles delicately at his earlobe. “C’mon. Details.”

“I didn’t think you’d be the type for a clothing kink, Mr Lestrade.”

“You’d be surprised. Nothing sexier than a man in a good suit. So. Waistcoats? Cufflinks? I saw you looking at those the other day.”

Mycroft chuckles. “Observant. Well, if you must know, I prefer bespoke suits from Gieves and Hawkes. Two button jacket: notched lapels, single breasted. Worsted wool—of course. Six-button waistcoat, welted pockets.” Greg moans and presses against him like he’s whispering filthy endearments. “Italian cotton poplin shirt. Silk tie. Matching pocket square.” Strong fingers grip his hips and squeeze. Mycroft can’t help but grin. “Sleeve garters,” he adds, whispering, just to drive the point home.

“Jesus. You’re killing me. Do you carry a pocket watch?”

“Gold chain and all,” he replies, feeling a bit silly.

Greg lets out a frustrated groan. “God, I’d pay money to watch you dress for work.”

“Most people prefer the undressing part.” He’s never met anyone with a suit kink. His clothing garners contempt from Sherlock and anyone under forty, and grudging respect from the fossils at the Diogenes, but the firm cock pressing against his arse shows a delightful level of interest—someone else who appreciates sartorial elegance.

“Watching someone get dressed is underrated,” Greg says. “I’ll bet you can do your tie with your eyes closed. Double Windsor?”

“Of course.”

Greg’s fingers flex across his hips in approval. “Mm. I miss well-tailored suits. Around here it’s all Gore-Tex and fleece. God. _Waistcoats_. I don’t remember the last time I saw a waistcoat.” He draws in a ragged breath and drags his teeth lightly across Mycroft’s neck to make his point. Mycroft arches, trying to focus.

“Well,” he says, trying to piece words together from the shattered remnants of his vocabulary, “I did bring one.” He reaches for a suit bag hanging on the end of the rail. “Not as formal—”

The rest of the sentence evaporates as Greg’s hand slides from his hip to his groin and gives him a long, slow rub through his boxers. He’s already half-hard, even though they’ve just had sex. Reverse-stripping, he thinks, isn’t a popular kink because you end up aroused and dressed instead of naked and ready to go. Then again, it doesn’t mean both of them have to be dressed….

Mycroft grabs the suit bag and tosses it onto the bed. He kisses Greg and says, “Want to help me get ready?”

Twenty minutes later—because Greg insists on helping with the buttons, and the braces, and the cufflinks, and his tie, and ‘helping’ mostly turns into ‘kissing and fondling’ until they can focus long enough to move on to the next part—he’s the picture of elegance. And on his knees, with Greg’s cock in his mouth.

Greg works one hand through Mycroft’s shower-mussed hair and grasps the soft wool of his jacket with the other. He’s staring down at him with awe and lust, and he groans out Mycroft’s name as he spills into his mouth.

Mycroft swallows him down, a small part of his sex-melted brain remembering to keep his suit pristine. No room for sloppy blow-jobs when it comes to fashion. He’s glad of the lush carpeting; it won’t leave any evidence on the knees of his trousers. His thoughts are completely derailed when Greg pulls him to his feet and kisses away his own taste from Mycroft’s mouth.

“That was incredible,” Greg says when they finally part. “Thanks.” He palms the tented front of Mycroft’s suit trousers. His face is flushed, pupils blown. “Can I do you?” he asks breathlessly.

“But you just did, in the shower. Doesn’t it wreck your throat?” He wants to kick himself. _The correct answer was ‘yes’, you idiot._

“Promise I won’t break,” he says, sounding amused. “Please?” The ‘please’ is more desperate.

“God, sorry. Yes. Please.” He starts to remove his jacket, beginning the complex process of undressing. The tyranny of braces: normally he adores them, but when it comes to expedient sex, a belt is far more practical.

“Wait—”

Mycroft looks up at him.

“Can you leave it all on? Just undo the trousers? I’ve always wanted to suck off a bloke in a suit.”

The words go straight to his cock, all thoughts of stains vanishing in a cloud of lust.

“I’ll make it worth it, I promise. Won’t get your suit dirty.”

“Don’t care about the suit,” he chokes out, and then Greg’s hands are all over him, slipping beneath his waistcoat, pushing it up, heat radiating through his crisp cotton shirt. He tries to remember why he likes wearing so many layers.

“God, you’re sexy.” It’s more of a breath than words, hot against his neck as Greg’s lips caress the exposed skin between his ear and his starched collar.

He moves to loosen his tie to give him better access, but Greg stops him.

“No, don’t. You’re at the office. Can’t have people knowing what you’re up to, can you?” Greg’s fingers splay flat beneath his waistcoat and push insistently up along his flank. “Just think of me as, um,” he pauses, “providing a _service_ during your hectic work schedule. Stress relief.”

Mycroft arches an eyebrow. He’s never role-played anything in his life, but he’s not without an imagination. “So, what is it then? Are you a lunch boy looking for a bigger tip, or an ambassador looking to ‘negotiate’ a tactical advantage?”

“Perhaps I’m the delivery man from the dry cleaners. Or…” he looks up with a wicked gleam in his eye, “perhaps I’m your tailor, providing some really _personalised_ services.”

He laughs, but the idea is sexy as hell. “Oh? And what would those be?”

“Custom measurements, very precise ones. Me, on my knees, making sure the hems of your trousers are flawless.”

“Sounds promising,” Mycroft says, with a half-grin and a raised eyebrow. “Just the hems?”

“Of course not. I pay excellent attention to detail. I’d measure you thoroughly before we start. Examine your existing suits.” Then, more to himself, he murmurs, “God, the thought of _measuring_ you, all over. I went into the wrong profession.”

The hand beneath his waistcoat drops down onto his arse and the muscles there contract in response.

“Yes,” Greg murmurs, “I see we have some very fine work here.” Starting behind his balls, he runs a finger slowly up the seam of his trousers, pressing hard enough for Mycroft’s arse cheeks to tense and push together in response. He keeps going, all the way up the crack of his arse to his waistband. “I’m not sure about the cut though.” Greg’s finger slides back down. “It seems a little tight right _here_.” It stops right over Mycroft’s entrance, pressing hard enough through the fine wool that Mycroft isn’t sure whether to yelp with indignation or to grind back against it and moan. He ends up doing both.

Greg’s hand drops lower and massages the area just behind his balls. “What about here? Do you like the fit or should we modify it?” He pulls his finger firmly back up the seam and pushes in again, right over his hole. “I do think we need a better cut here. I’d hate for you to be uncomfortable all day.”

Mycroft swallows and tries to maintain some composure, but Greg isn’t making it easy, especially when his other hand palms the front of his trousers.

“Oh dear,” Greg says, full of mock horror. “I’m afraid the situation is more serious than I’d thought.” His hands caress him, both front and back, over and over.

He grabs onto Greg’s shoulder, worried his knees will give out. He wonders how long he’ll tease him before he’ll suck him off. He doesn’t want to come in his trousers like a teenager—which, if Greg keeps this up, could be a very real possibility. He might have to play the part of a ‘pushy customer’ if it comes to that.

Greg grasps the length of his cock through the trousers. “I apologise, sir. I’ve clearly cut this far too small for your… endowment. I’ll have to measure everything again. Extensively.” In a wicked whisper, he adds, “With my tongue.” 

It sounds delicious, but Greg had said he wanted him _in_ the suit, not out of it. “Unfortunately,” his voice comes out strained and breathless, “I have a pressing engagement this afternoon. If I have to disrobe for your _measurements_ , I’ll never make it in time.”

“Of course, sir. I’ll see what I can do.” He glances towards Mycroft’s zip. “If I may?”

He nods his assent.

Greg unzips him and stares hungrily at his boxer-clad groin—very unprofessional behaviour for a tailor.

“I’m afraid the cut doesn’t give me anything to work with, sir. Perhaps I can make you a little more comfortable for your meeting. It’s the least I can do.”

His erection strains beneath his boxers, desperate for Greg’s mouth. He’s finding it hard to think, let alone keep up the role-playing, but he does his best. “Your goal should be complete customer satisfaction, don’t you think?”

“Of course, sir. Whatever it takes.”

Greg frees his erection from the boxers, carefully stretching them down so they cup underneath his balls. His cock juts out obscenely between the flaps of his shirt.

“Um, sir? This might be more than I can work with.”

He remembers Greg’s insistence that he be ‘persuaded’ that night in the lodge. “I don’t think you have much choice in the matter.”

“Perhaps I could…” he reaches out to grasp it.

“And risk ruining my suit? I don’t think so. We both agreed that your job is complete customer satisfaction, and I’ll only be satisfied when your mouth is full and your chin is pressed up against my balls.”

Greg whimpers—which isn’t very in-character, but Mycroft can’t blame him—and drops from his half-crouch completely to his knees. He looks up at him with a wicked gleam in his eyes and licks his lips. “I’ll do my best to be of service to you, sir.”

“Yes, you will.” He’s taken Greg’s mouth lots of times now and knows he loves taking it deep, but this time, Greg keeps up his roleplaying. His lips are firm as Mycroft pushes into his mouth, and the head of his cock barely breaches them.

Greg pulls back. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t think you’re going to fit.”

“A good tailor can make anything fit.” Before either of them can break character and giggle at the awful line, he fists Greg’s hair and yanks his head back. “Don’t you agree?”

Greg moans. “Completely, sir.”

“Good.” He shifts his stance so he’s right up in Greg’s face, so close he has to pull Greg’s head back to get the head of it in, and then he feeds him every inch of his cock. He has to force the last inch or so, to get his chin right up against him like he’d promised, and the tight constriction of Greg’s throat around the head of his cock almost makes him come.

Greg’s body stutters as it involuntarily fights for air, but he doesn’t pull away. He tightens his fingers against the wool of Mycroft’s trousers as he works the head of his cock with the muscles of his throat, finally pulling back far enough for a breath when the lack of air gets to be too much. Then he does it again.

Mycroft lets go of him, because he needs to do something about his shirt tails. They’re blocking the view. He shoves them into the sides of his trousers, hoping they’ll stay, because he doesn’t want to miss any of this.

Greg has pulled back a bit and is doing lovely things with his tongue. Mycroft grabs his hair again and pulls him off. Greg looks up at him, giddy-drunk happy and his lips already red, and says, “Guess you were right about the fit.”

When he swallows him back down with no prompting at all, Mycroft goes with it. There’s no ‘persuading’ someone who’s already along for the ride. Hell, Greg’s not just along for the ride, he’s driving and paying the tolls. He’s never met anyone who can give head like this, or who gets off on it so much.

It doesn’t take long before he comes, and Greg swallows every drop of him. There’s not a speck on his suit, not even any saliva.

Still on his knees, Greg carefully moves Mycroft’s boxers back to their normal position and covers his softening cock. He untucks the errant shirt tails, smoothing them down, then he carefully zips Mycroft back up and buttons his trousers.

“There, sir,” he says, a cheeky grin on his face as he smooths his hand across the front of the now-better-fitting trousers. “I think you’ll find that should work for your meeting. You can come back later and I’ll take some proper measurements.”

Mycroft bursts out laughing.

“Oh, come on. I thought I did really well,” Greg says, pretending to sound hurt. “I’d make a good tailor. I’m sure that’s all there is to it.”

“I’m never going to be able to look my tailor in the eye again,” he says, wincing. “He’s in his seventies.”

“Well, there you go. I should pack it in and be his apprentice.”

“I’m not sure what Savile Row would think of your methods,” he says, his body still shaking with laughter, “but you’d singlehandedly revive bespoke tailoring. You’d have them lining out the door.”

“Well, luckily for you, I’m very select about my clients.”

“That’s good, because a man has to have a good relationship with his tailor.”

“In his seventies, huh?” Greg says, teasingly.

Mycroft puts his head in his hands and groans. “I am _never_ going to live this down.”

Greg sits on the bed, still chuckling. “I should go into acting.”

He looks over with an arched eyebrow. Not that Greg doesn’t have movie-star looks, but acting seems like a bit of a stretch.

“Porn?” Greg adds.

“I imagine ‘Suit Porn’ is a very niche market.” Greg’s the only person he’s ever met who’s found the concept erotic.

“You think that’s a thing? I’d watch the hell out of it.”

“I don’t know. I’ve never thought to look.”

Greg reaches for his phone and does a quick search. “Bloody hell,” he says, incredulous and laughing, pointing at the screen. “It’s a thing.” He clicks through a few links. “Your suits are a lot nicer though.”

“Really? Let me see.” He watches a few clips and his face gets warm. He’ll never be able to look at a tie the same way again.

“I don’t suppose your ‘employer’ would let you take on a few jobs on the side? We could team up.”

He doubts the Queen watches gay porn, and he can’t imagine her endorsing it, no matter how well-dressed (or well-endowed) the participants might be. He laughs nervously. “Probably not.”

“You know I’m joking, right?”

“What? Sorry, yes. Of course.” He’d been too lost in the idea of getting to do this with Greg again—ever. He pushes the depressing thought from his mind. “So, what did you want to do about dinner?”

“Can’t say I’m all that hungry. You?”

“No, and to be honest, I’d rather spend my time curled up here with you.”

“Room service?” says Greg.

“Room service.”

“Then let me help you out of that suit.”

They both pretend tomorrow isn’t Sunday.


	12. Chapter 12

It’s still dark when Mycroft wakes up, startled by a crash in the living room. He’s about to get up and investigate when he realises he’s alone in the bed.

It must be Greg. Leaving.

Part of him is relieved. He didn’t know how he was going to get through a goodbye, trying to fake a breezy “This was fun” when his real mood is “I’m going to miss you so much, and now I’ll be alone and miserable.” This saves them both an awkward conversation.

The other part of him wants to go into the living room and stop him, hold him, drag him back so they can spend every last minute together until he flies back to London.

He doesn’t have the nerve.

He hears Greg heading back to the bedroom and wonders if he’s changed his mind. He closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep. Greg stands there for a few moments and lets out a sigh, then leaves a note on his empty pillow.

Mycroft waits for the front door to close completely before he turns on the light and scans it.

_Mycroft,_

_I’m sorry to leave like this. I’m crap at goodbyes and I didn’t want to ruin your day. I can’t tell you how much this week has meant to me. If you ever want more skiing lessons, you know where to find me._

_Greg x_

It’s all he can do not to pull on his bathrobe and run down the hallway after him. Nearly does. But it’ll just make it worse for both of them.

He stares at the note, his eyes losing focus as they fill with tears. He blinks them back. He knew what this was when he got into it: a holiday fling. Nothing’s changed.

* * *

Greg closes the door behind him as quietly as he can and hurries down the hallway, feeling like the world’s biggest coward. He’s amazed Mycroft didn’t wake up when he knocked over his skis.

It’s for the best, he tells himself. They both agreed this was a harmless bit of fun and nothing more, although his emotions would beg to differ. It’s not as if there’s anything he can do, and spending the morning facing the painful, inevitable goodbye is more than he can handle.

He’s shivering at the deserted bus stop when he decides ‘to hell with it’. The grim prospect of his empty flat is too much. He turns around and walks over to the maintenance shed by the gondola. He commandeers one of the snowmobiles—this time, he’ll owe Shaun a favour—straps his skis to the side, and races up the mountain. What are they going to do? Sack him? (Again?) It’s not as if he’s stealing it. He’ll leave it in the shed at the top and Shaun can get it later.

He can’t help but remember the last time, when Mycroft had been pressed warm and solid against his back. He grips the handlebars tighter and opens the throttle, listening to the engine roar.

When he gets to the top, dawn glows in the eastern sky. It’s not really light enough to ski safely, but he’ll have the runs to himself. Pain, self-pity, and a self-destructive bent make for a volatile mixture. He wouldn’t call it suicidal. ‘Stupid’, perhaps.

With the sled securely locked away, he trudges over to the runs. He’ll only get one go—no more sleds he can borrow—and it has to be a good one. He plots a mental course, a selection of runs he can straight-line and maximise for speed, pushing himself to the edge like he used to in his racing days.

He drops in on one of the steeper ledges, getting the initial kick of speed he needs. He poles hard, relying on his memory of the terrain to compensate for the low light, the lack of definition in the snow. The freshly groomed texture hisses beneath his skis.

He’s straight-lining it in a full tuck, going much faster than he’d be able to with people around. It almost feels like he’s racing again, just him and the snow. He’s nowhere near his old speed, but it’s good enough. The trees fly by him in a blur as he focusses on the trail ahead, his eyes straining to make out the details in the early morning half-light.

He’s bombing through a curve when one of his skis skitters out from beneath him, sending him crashing to the ground at fifty miles per hour. Thankfully he’s facing the trees and not downhill, and he slams into the snowbank at the edge of the run.

He takes mental inventory. No blackout. Good. Concussion? He doesn’t remember hitting his head and he can see straight so that’s a good start. His right knee hurts like fuck but nothing seems to be broken. His pride, maybe. At least his bad leg is fine.

The cold numbs his arse as he sits there getting his bearings. His skis and poles are scattered in the middle of the run. Embarrassing. He gingerly puts his full weight on his right leg. There’s a twinge, but it’s not as bad as he expected. He pushes himself to his feet and limps over to his gear.

He feels stupid. If he’d really hurt himself, he’d be stuck here until the lifts started running and someone had found him, but it’s nothing more than a sprain at most, and the burn in his knee gives him something to concentrate on other than the pain of Mycroft leaving.

Clicking back into his skis, he makes his way down the rest of the mountain at a sedate pace, glad he doesn’t have an audience.

He heads to the bus stop, hoping like hell he doesn’t run into Mycroft out to get tea or something. He gets there without seeing him, but that only feels worse. It’s all well and good leaving a dramatic note and vanishing in the middle of the night, but it’s not much of a goodbye.

He hauls his snow-covered gear over to Mycroft’s hotel. It earns him an arched remark from the receptionist.

“Bit early to be on the slopes?”

Of course it is. They aren’t bloody open for another hour, and he’s not wearing a red Ski Patrol jacket. “Unexpected localised blizzard,” he quips, and adds, “Can you keep an eye on this? I should be back in a few minutes.”

“Sure,” she says. “I’ll put them back here.”

He debates whether or not coming back is a good idea all the way to Mycroft’s room. The choices echo with each thunk of his boots: Yes. No. Yes. No. Don’t. Run. _(Don’t run.)_ He finds himself outside the door, knocking before he can stop himself. Is Mycroft even awake? Did he find the note?

_Oh, God._ What made him think this was a good idea?

He’d bolt, except you can’t _bolt_ in ski boots, especially with a sore knee. It’s too late, anyway. He hears footsteps approaching the door.

Mycroft answers the door wearing a shirt and slacks, hair still wet from the shower. “Greg.” He looks surprised and confused. “Sorry, I thought you’d be Sherlock.” The surprise slides off his face and into a frown. “What are you doing here?”

No turning back now. “I wanted to apologise, you know, for leaving in the middle of the night like that. I shouldn’t have.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow and—damn him—doesn’t say a word.

This is exactly the sort of reason he’d left a note. “You’re upset, I get that. You have every right to be—”

“Come in for some tea?” Mycroft says, his expression mellowing into something softer.

Greg sighs and smiles a little. “Yeah, that’d be lovely. Thanks.” He realises he’s chilled through. Hadn’t even noticed before now.

Mycroft eyes his jacket, still snow-encrusted from the fall. “A little dark out to be skiing, isn’t it?”

“As it turns out, yes,” he says, deadpan. “Yes, it is.” He props himself against the kitchen counter to take some of the weight off his aching knee.

Mycroft busies himself with the kettle and Greg can’t see his expression. When he turns around, it’s strained. “I got your note.”

“Yeah. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s fine. I almost followed you.”

“You were awake?”

Mycroft nods.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry. It made sense at the time. I thought it would be easier for both of us.”

Mycroft gives him a rueful smile. “Possibly. But I’m glad you came back.”

“Yeah.”

It’s an awkward moment, neither of them speaking or knowing what to say.

“When’s your flight?”

“It leaves Vancouver at two, but we have to fly down there, check in and all that. We have to be at the helipad by ten.”

“Are you… doing anything for breakfast?” Greg asks, and as soon as the words are out of his mouth he regrets them. Coming back to apologise is one thing; deliberately prolonging the agony is just asinine.

“I’m sorry. I’m supposed to meet my family for a quick bite before we leave. It’s that cafe down the road. You can come if you want.”

“Oh God, no. Thank you though. I appreciate the offer.”

Mycroft huffs out a quiet laugh. “I don’t blame you. It sounds awful.” He fiddles with his tea and takes a few sips. “I didn’t want to come on this holiday. I thought at best I’d be able to get some work done in peace. I never thought I’d actually…”

Greg waits for him to continue, but he doesn’t. “What?” he says, gently. He’s expecting something along the lines of ‘meet someone’ or ‘have sex’.

“… enjoy it.”

“Oh. I’m glad.” He’s struck by the loneliness but tries not to let it show. He smiles and says, “Thanks for sticking it out with the skiing. I know it’s rough at first.”

“Thanks for bribing me with cocoa, although if I’m honest it was more the idea of having a drink with you than it was the actual cocoa.”

Greg chuckles. “I got that impression. It’s been an amazing week.”

“It has, thank you.”

“No regrets, then?” Greg asks, cautiously.

“None,” he says, but the smile he wears is wistful. “No, I have one regret. I should have booked a longer holiday.”

“Yeah.” He wishes that, too. _No_. What he really wishes is that Mycroft would let himself have a real relationship. Hell, if he thought he had half a chance, he’d pack up and go to London right now—it’s not like there’s a lot keeping him here—but Mycroft has been pretty clear about his stance on the matter. He has to let it go. He has to let _Mycroft_ go.

Mycroft leans in to kiss him, ignoring the effect Greg’s dripping-wet jacket will have on his clean shirt. 

The warm touch of his lips fills him with an aching sense of longing. His gut twists knowing that this will be their last real kiss, the last of their shared moments. It’s soft and gentle, with no urgency at all. Eventually he pulls back, kissing the corner of Mycroft’s mouth, trailing butterfly kisses across his jaw and cheek. He wants to tell him how much he’ll miss him, but they’ve agreed there’s no room for sentiment. Holiday flings have Rules.

He breathes out through his nose to try and compose himself. He refuses to let his emotions get the better of him. He should leave, stop making this worse for both of them, but he can’t. Not yet.

He leans back in, stealing one more kiss, getting lost in it one more time, but they’re interrupted by an insistent knock at the door. They break apart, both sighing. “I suppose that’ll be Sherlock, then?”

“However did you guess?” Mycroft says, wryly. “He has impeccable timing.”

He opens the door and Sherlock barges in, ruining the mood.

He ignores Mycroft and turns to Greg with a vicious smile. “Greg. Fancy seeing you here.”

Greg simply looks at him, not deeming it worthy of a response.

“It’s a shame you’ll have to move back to your flat now.”

He doesn’t have the emotional energy to engage in a verbal sparring match. He stares at him levelly, bored and unimpressed.

Mycroft, however, is incensed. “Sherlock! Apologise. Now.”

“Well, it’s true isn’t it?”

Greg wishes he had a biting comeback, but there’s no arguing with the truth of his statement. Instead, he replies in a monotone, “You’re one of the most annoying people I’ve ever met.” Then he flashes him a brief, sarcastic smile.

“Apologise,” Mycroft says again, his tone icy and threatening.

“Sorry,” Sherlock says, not sounding at all contrite.

“Get out. I’ll meet you downstairs in five minutes.”

“Really? Just five? I would have thought you’d need at least seven.”

“Get out. Now.”

Sherlock gives them both a smug grin and turns on his heel, thankfully leaving without another word.

Mycroft takes a deep breath, exhales, then says, “I don’t even know where to start. I’m sorry.”

“You’re a saint. I don’t know how you put up with him,” he says, giving him a thin smile.

“Distance, Scotch, and threats of surveillance.”

Greg huffs a quiet laugh.

“Oh, which reminds me—would you like the rest of that bottle? I can’t take it with me.”

“You sure? I certainly wouldn’t say no. Thanks.”

Mycroft gets the box it came in and a shopping bag so Greg won’t be walking through the village at eight in the morning gripping a half-empty bottle of Scotch. Probably for the best.

Greg wishes he had the nerve to ask for copies of the photos they took together—something far more precious than the Scotch—but the Rules don’t allow it. He needs to leave before he says something regrettable. “Thanks for this week. It was wonderful.”

“It was. Thank _you_.”

Greg steals one more quick kiss because he can’t _not_ , and then with a final goodbye he’s out the door and heading for the lift as fast as his ski boots will allow. He refuses to acknowledge the tears forming in his eyes. Blinks hard. Bites his bottom lip so he can focus on something else. He won’t let himself fall apart until he gets home. God, things are going to seem so _empty_ now.

And—because the world is out to get Greg in horrible ways today—Sherlock is waiting in the lobby, thankfully facing the other direction. He scrubs his hand down his face to compose himself and hopes he can walk by unnoticed.

Of course not.

He’s prepared for more of his sarcastic wit, but when Sherlock turns around he’s wearing a solemn expression.

“I hope you know what you’ve done,” he says coldly, his eyes meeting Greg’s in a harsh stare.

He’s too startled to respond, his face crumpling into a confused frown. Sherlock turns away, silently dismissing him, and Greg hurries out into the chilly air in a daze.

He doesn’t even realise he’s forgotten his skis until he gets back to his flat. He makes arrangements to get them later. He can’t face going back now.

* * *

As soon as Greg leaves, Mycroft goes out onto the balcony. He grips the freezing railing so hard his hands hurt and wishes he still smoked. Taking deep breaths, he focusses on the pain until he can stitch his frayed emotions back into a semblance of unruffled calm.

Then he pastes on a polite smile and goes down to meet his family for breakfast.

He listens to their glowing recollections of the holiday for as long as he can—long enough to wolf down some scrambled eggs, toast, and a cup of tea—then excuses himself saying he needs to pack.

On the way back to the room, he makes a detour to the ski school where an irritatingly cheerful woman sits behind the desk.

“Good morning. How can I help you?”

“It’s customary to leave a tip for private lessons, yes?”

“That’s at your discretion, sir.”

He holds out his credit card for her. “My instructor was Greg Lestrade.”

She pauses and gives him a strange look before taking his card.

“Is there a problem?”

“No, of course not,” she says, a polite smile returning to her face. “How much would you like to leave?”

“Forty percent, please.”

Her eyebrows go high and she looks at him incredulously. “People usually leave about twenty-five, sir.”

“And I’d like to leave forty. He was an excellent instructor.”

“Of course, sir. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it. I’m glad you enjoyed your stay.”

The transaction completed, he heads back to his room.

He packs the rest of his things in a robotic daze, then he zips up his luggage and turns to the one thing in the room that remains out of place—Greg’s note, still on his pillow. His visit had been awkward, but he’s glad they were able to get some sort of closure. The note sits more lightly on his heart than it did before. He folds the piece of hotel notepaper so it fits in his wallet, sharpening the creases with his fingernail. He slides it in against the warm leather where it sits unobtrusively against his cash. Out of sight, but not entirely out of mind. 

* * *

Greg holes up in his flat until he’s sure Mycroft has left. He hears the thump of helicopter blades pass by as their charter flight heads towards Vancouver. He’s all set for an epic sulk: sore knee, sore heart, and angry at himself for getting emotionally involved.

The picture on his season pass mocks him. On it, he’s beaming—thrilled to have a job with free skiing as a fringe benefit. Now it reminds him that it’s all gone, every future lift ticket purchase weighed against his desire to buy real food.

He’s not sure when they’ll cut him off. It might be today, but since Mycroft was booked through Sunday, it could be tomorrow. He has to pick up his skis anyway. He suits back up in his ski gear and takes the bus back to the village.

When he’s beeped through onto the gondola without incident, it seals the deal: he’s going to ski the hell out of his last day, ride hard until the lifts close, and then take the longest run back down the mountain to the village. Ignore his sore knee and his pathetic life and make this day count. 

* * *

The next day, when every muscle in Greg’s body aches, he regrets it, but only for as long as it takes to find the bottle of ibuprofen. His instructor jacket sits on the table next to his lift pass. Time to say goodbye.

He knocks on Joel’s door and waits for him to answer. It wouldn’t do to be rude, not when the bastard still has his grubby little hands on his final paycheque. But when he goes in and sees the smug grin on Joel’s face, it doesn’t bode well.

“Greg, how are you?” Joel asks, his interest and friendliness equally insincere. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Have a seat.”

He gives him a forced smile. “Brought back your jacket.”

Joel doesn’t say anything, just sits there with that smug grin Greg wants to slap off his face.

Greg tolerates it for a few seconds but starts shifting in his seat when it’s clear that Joel is enjoying the moment at his expense. “What?” he says, sounding more defensive than he’d like.

Joel leans back in his chair and stretches his arms over his head like a cat.

“Do you have a point to make,” Greg says, irritation creeping into his tone despite his best effort, “or are you going to sit there all day? I’d just like to pick up my cheque and go.”

“Your boyfriend is quite a tipper.”

Greg clenches his fists but doesn’t rise to the bait. He won’t give him the satisfaction.

Joel seems disappointed by his lack of response and goes on. “Yeah, forty percent. Don’t often find them that generous. He must have really enjoyed your _services_.”

Greg springs to his feet and slams his palm against the desk. “Look, this is fucking harassment and it’s illegal.”

“It’s only illegal if you’re an employee, which you’re not. That’s why we won’t be including your boyfriend’s tip in your final cheque. Or, for that matter, your cut of his lesson fees.”

Greg’s jaw opens and closes but no words come out. It feels like someone’s punched him in the gut. Eventually he stammers, “That’s not legal. You know it’s not.”

“Well, I don’t imagine you have the money for a court case, so it’s a moot point.” He gives Greg a shark-like smile. “Now, if that’s all, Wendy has your cheque.”

Greg sits back down as calmly as he can, not sure what his plan is but knowing there’s a way out of this. There has to be. He’ll buy time until he thinks of one. “No, that’s not all.”

“Oh, please. You don’t have a leg to stand on. Take what we’re giving you and get out.”

“No. This wouldn’t even be an issue if I’d gone to dinner with a female client. I’ve seen instructors do it all the time.” He has. It’s been his personal rule not to, but no one else bothers with it.

“Sorry. They didn’t get caught.”

“No, this is discrimination, pure and simple.”

“—and there’s not a thing you can do about it.”

Then it hits him and he smiles. “Really? I can think of one thing.”

Joel’s smug grin disappears. “What?”

“Well, Pride Week’s next month. It’d be a real shame if all the local media caught on to the fact that the only ski school is run by a homophobic bastard. Could be a big story. Hell, it might even go national.”

He scoffs. “You’ll never get traction with that.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You fired me because I’m gay, and now you’re withholding my wages. Sounds like a good story to me.” He shrugs his shoulders, almost nonchalant. “You sure you want to chance it?” Then he beams at him.

Joel sucks air through his nose as his face turns an unattractive shade of scarlet. A vein just above his eye throbs.

Greg sits there. Smiling. Waiting.

“I’m not giving you your job back,” he spits out.

“And I’m not asking for it. Just pay me what I’m owed.”

“This is blackmail.”

“I disagree, and I think the papers will too.” He pauses, looking mock-thoughtful. “Isn’t the ski school sponsoring Pride this year?”

Growling in frustration, Joel leaps out of his chair and looms over Greg. “Fine. You’ll get your fucking money. Now get out.”

Greg doesn’t flinch. “Not without my cheque,” he says brightly.

“Recut Lestrade’s cheque to include this week,” Joel yells out of his office door, sounding like he’s about to strangle someone.

“And the tip.”

“And the fucking tip,” he adds.

“Thanks for being so reasonable,” Greg says, all smiles. He ducks as Joel throws a stack of papers at him and hurries out the door.

He waits while Wendy prints him a new cheque, thousands of dollars more than the previous one.

She looks at him in disbelief. “What did you say to him?”

“I’m a good negotiator.” He gives her a shit-eating grin and leaves with enough money to cushion his job search for quite some time.


	13. Chapter 13

Mycroft settles back into the task of world domination (job-share, on Wednesdays). Except it’s not just Wednesdays, and he’s really glad to have it all to himself again. His understudies might have kept war from breaking out in his absence, but their intel reports are pathetic. It takes him three days and an awkward meeting with the Prime Minister—awkward for the Prime Minister, that is—to whip things back into shape.

He prints out his holiday photos and puts them away for later, when he can face them. He takes one, the one with him and Greg in front of Black Tusk, and slides it into his laptop bag. He puts it in his desk drawer at work and refuses to look at it.

A strand of loneliness twists through his daily activities, but he buries it under reports and meetings. In the evenings, it’s harder. He drowns it first in one drink, then two, then in all the books he’s been meaning to read and annotate and cross-reference. When that doesn’t do it anymore, he starts working late. Very late. There’s always work to be done, and he refuses to end up in the bottom of a bottle.

It’s not until the end of the second week, after Anthea has gone home, that he takes the picture out and stares at it. Really, really looks at it.

He takes a deep breath, his lips drawn in a tight line, carefully controlling the emotions he’s been avoiding by burying the picture in his drawer and by burying himself in his work. He wants to remember his holiday without being overcome by regret and loneliness. He doesn’t regret what they did—he enjoyed their time together—he regrets the emotional vulnerability, the weakness. It’s compromised his clarity of purpose. It’s affecting his work.

He looks at the picture again, the two of them smiling on the mountaintop, and remembers how happy he’d been. It wasn’t just the sex (although that was amazing), and God knows it wasn’t love (because people don’t fall in love in a few days, no matter what the films try to tell you), but being around someone who enjoyed his company—liked him for who he _is_ —that’s what he misses.

No one likes him for who he is. His parents like him because he’s their son, but would they associate with him if he wasn’t? Doubtful. He terrifies his minions, bores and irritates Sherlock, and who else is there? Anthea is the closest thing he has to a friend, and she’s on the payroll. A healthy disdain for humanity keeps the rest of the world safely at bay.

He takes out his phone and looks at Greg’s number in the contact list. Puts it away. He doesn’t dare question his motivations.

He puts the picture back in his drawer and goes back to his reports. He works until his eyes don’t focus and puts his head down on his desk. Just for a second. Just to refresh himself a little.

“Sir?”

He must be dreaming; Anthea would never visit him at home. Then it dawns on him where he is, and he bolts upright, blinking to clear his eyes.

“Sir, are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Yes, I’m fine. I had to stay late and I must have dozed off.” He sees her glance at his cheek and rubs his fingers across it. He feels a keyboard imprint and closes his eyes in embarrassment. “Could you arrange for some breakfast, please?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Thank you. That’ll be all.”

She leaves, closing the door behind her.

It doesn’t happen again. He arranges to have his driver pick him up every night at two in the morning. And, if some nights he spends the last hour staring at the photo in his desk drawer, no one needs to know about it. It turns out he functions very well on five hours of sleep.

* * *

Greg expects it to take weeks to find a job he doesn’t hate on sight, but he has one by Friday. Shaun knows someone who knows someone, and he gets a night job waxing skis for one of the rental shops.

They’re thrilled to have him: he doesn’t need training (he’s been doing it to his own skis for years), he’s good at it, and he doesn’t show up for work stoned.

Best of all? His days are open for skiing. A little of Mycroft’s tip paid for a new season pass. He doesn’t care about the mediocre pay. He doesn’t have to put up with Joel, or Andy, or tourists, or even the other employees. It’s just him and the equipment and the empty shop and whatever music he wants.

He doesn’t know why he didn’t do this years ago. This is the secret to living in Whistler and staying sane.

Except that every time he drops into Harmony Bowl on a powder day, his gut twists.

And when the job keeps him busy during Pride Week, he’s secretly relieved.

He deletes Mycroft’s number from his phone, because he’d made it explicitly clear that it was only a ‘holiday fling’ and his job didn’t allow for relationships. Whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. He suspects it means _Mycroft_ doesn’t allow for relationships, not his job. And what’s he going to do? Show up on Mycroft’s front doorstep and tell him he misses him? Not bloody likely.

He racks up more hours on the hill in three months than he has in the past fifteen years combined. It helps. With some things, you have to accept them and move on. Just like Mycroft had said. 

* * *

Spring skiing ends and Whistler shifts into ‘summer season’. The ski-waxing job won’t restart until November, and he transitions back to day shifts.

For the first few years after he moved to Canada, he killed the summers by waiting tables. Then he worked in one of the hotel kitchens as a line cook for a few seasons. That was even worse than being a waiter, but at least he learned how to cook a decent meal.

His sixth year, he spent all his savings on getting trained as a physical therapist. All his months of treatment after his leg injury left him with a desire to be on the other side of the therapy table. It took him all summer and half the winter before he’d earned his license, and there was a month where he ate nothing but dried ramen noodles to pay for it, but it was worth it.

Every summer since then, he’s worked as a therapist at one of the sports medicine clinics. There’s no shortage of work. Whistler is a paradise for mountain bikers, and the sport generates even more injuries than skiing. He doesn’t mind the patients—people are nice to you when they know you can make them suffer—and the work is interesting. Satisfying, even.

He likes his work.

Well, he _liked_ his work. Being around people again reminds him of how lonely it is in his flat.

After a week of passive-aggressive moaning about it, his colleague Natalie sets him up on a date. He tries to enjoy it; he really does. The bloke is nice enough—polite, interesting, does something with computers for a living—but they never get past a few dinner dates. She sets him up with someone else, but it’s the same thing. There’s just nothing _there_. No spark. Not like there had been with Mycroft.

He starts to wish he’d never met him.

* * *

It’s a Saturday, unseasonably warm for June. Greg doesn’t have to work, and he’s damned if he’s going to spend the entire day playing video games. (Again.) He calls Natalie to see if she’s as bored as he is. “I was thinking of hiking the Chief. Want to come?” He means Stawamus Chief, the huge hunk of rock in Squamish.

“I’m going to Vancouver to get some stuff, sorry.”

“Oh, come on, it’s a nice day for a hike. I’ll drive you to Vancouver tomorrow and pay for petrol.” It’s a dirty move: Natalie isn’t long out of school and petrol isn’t cheap.

“You’re bribing me to exercise,” she says. “That’s a long hike.”

“No, I’m bribing you to keep me company. I’m bored stiff.”

“Okay, but you’re taking me to Ikea tomorrow as well. I need a new bookcase.”

The idea is almost torturous enough to make him back out, but he agrees. “If you stay longer than two hours, I’ll leave you there to rot among the candle holders.”

“That’s fair.”

It’s a strenuous hike. It’s not until they’re at the peak that they start chatting aimlessly. Natalie’s eating her sandwich and Greg lies on his back on the flat rock with his eyes closed, soaking up the sun.

“Hey, so what happened with the ski school?” she says, taking him by surprise. “Did the kids finally get to you?”

He makes a non-committal noise. “I’d just, you know, been there for ages. It was time to do something else.”

“Couldn’t it wait ’til the end of the season? They gave you a lift pass, right?”

He shifts uncomfortably on the rock. “I had a disagreement with the owner.”

“Oh. You gonna go back to the rental shop in the fall then?”

He has a sudden, terrifying vision of his life in another ten years. He’s going to be ‘that old dude who waxes skis at the rental place’. Everything crystallises in that one moment. Everything changes. He opens his eyes and stares at the cloudless blue sky. He needs to forgive himself and get his life back on track. Move on. Not from Mycroft, but from his accident. He needs to stop hiding.

A rough—very rough—plan forms in his head.

“Greg?” Natalie sounds worried that he hasn’t responded.

“No,” he says, and just saying it out loud feels good. “I’m going back to England.”

“You’re what? When?” Her voice is an octave higher than normal, all confusion and panic. “To do what?”

“Get my life together.”

“You have a life.”

“I’m a forty-three-year-old ski bum, I don’t have a boyfriend, and I’ve never met my three-year-old niece. My only redeeming quality is my semi-respectable summer job. It’s a life, but not a very good one.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not joking. I’ve been hiding from a lot of stuff and I need to deal with it. Whistler is no place for an old, single bloke with no career.” And when he says these things out loud, it only makes him more sure.

“Jesus. What brought all this on?”

“Something someone told me this winter. I didn’t listen at the time, but he was right.”

“Wow. When are you leaving? What are you gonna do?”

“I’m not sure. I have to look into some things. You want my bookcase? You won’t have to go to Ikea.”

She gives a short laugh. “You’re serious about this.”

“Yeah.”

Over the next few days, he makes his plan. He’ll go back to England, get his English physical therapy license, and get a job somewhere near London. It’s a good plan, a safe plan. It’ll get his life back on track, and he’ll finally make something of himself. The thought of never skiing again is depressing as hell, but he tells himself he’ll get over it. Maybe he’ll save up for a holiday in Switzerland in a few years.

He sells or gives away everything he owns. Well, almost everything. He can’t bring himself to sell his ski gear, and he keeps his decent clothes and a few mementos he’s picked up over the years. His entire life fits into two suitcases and a ski bag.

His savings cover a plane ticket (with some money to spare), and his sister Janice agrees to put him up until he can find a flat. He goes out for one last drink with Natalie and some of his colleagues, but he’s more excited than sad.

And then, the day before he leaves, he has an idea—an impossible, ridiculous idea with the same odds as buying a winning lottery ticket—but he looks up a phone number and makes the call anyway. He has nothing to lose.

* * *

It’s late spring when everything goes to hell.

Mycroft finds Sherlock waiting for him in his flat when he gets home. It’s half past two in the morning. He’s sitting on the sofa, playing with Mycroft’s personal laptop.

He doesn’t even bother with the “Why did you break into my flat?” conversation, just goes straight to “What are you doing here and can’t it wait until morning? And put that away.”

“Hello to you, too.”

“I’m too tired for this. Go home.”

“Can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Both. My landlord accused me of cooking meth and kicked me out.”

He sighs and heads towards his bedroom. “Fine. Take one of the guest rooms. I’ll sort it out later.” Halfway down the hall, he pauses and turns back. “ _Are_ you cooking meth?”

“No.”

“Good. Go to bed.”

Sherlock takes up residence, but Mycroft doesn’t much care because their paths rarely cross.

After a week, he finds a note on the fridge:

_I know this is usually your line, but shouldn’t you be sleeping more than five hours a night?_

He throws it away.

The next day, there’s another note:

_Anthea phoned me. She’s worried. If she’s willing to talk to me, it must be bad. Come home and talk about this, or I’m calling Mummy._

He frowns and throws that note away as well.

Another day, another note:

_I’m not joking. If you throw this note away, she’ll be here waiting for you._

He clenches his teeth and writes, “Fine. 9 pm. Order dinner.” He shudders to think what he’ll order, but at least it’s not his problem. Anthea has been ordering him dinner at the office for months now, and he enjoys not having to think about it.

Sherlock has Chinese set out on the dining room table when he gets home. He makes himself a plate of chicken fried rice, sits down, and looks pointedly at Sherlock. “Well?”

“You need to move on.”

Were this anyone other than Sherlock, he’d feign ignorance, lie, deflect, or have them sent to Siberia, but he’s too exhausted to argue about something they both know is true. “Anything else?”

He looks up from slurping a wonton into his mouth. “No. That’s it.”

“We could have had this conversation via the fridge.”

“Yes, but I don’t remember the last time I had Chinese,” Sherlock says, then smiles.

“This is none of your business.”

“I do care if you’re happy, you know.”

Mycroft looks down at his fried rice and does his best to ignore him. He knows Sherlock cares, but he’d never let on.

“Three dates or I tell Mummy.”

“I _beg_ your pardon?”

“Dates. You. Going on them. People do that, you know.”

“I have no interest in dating.”

“That’s the problem,” Sherlock says, smiling irritatingly.

“I’ve never had _any_ interest in dating. Ever. People are idiots.”

“You found at least one you could tolerate, and that only took three days. Statistically, you’ve got good odds.”

Mycroft gets up and puts the rest of his food in the fridge. “We are not having this conversation,” he says icily, and strides down the hall to his bedroom.

“Three dates or I tell Mummy,” Sherlock calls behind him. “And stop working so much. You’re going to burn out if you keep on like this.”

Mycroft stops and turns around. “Why the sudden interest, Sherlock?”

He shrugs. “You’re boring when you’re miserable.”

He weighs his options. On the one hand, there’s Mummy and her iron fist, hunting him down with knives. And Sherlock, _caring_. On the other, there’s the rest of humanity and candlelit dinners. It’s a tough call.

“One date,” he says, finally. _“One._ And you say nothing to her about any of this. And you leave me alone.”

“Fine. One. And you get more sleep,” Sherlock says.

“I make no promises about that. I’m a busy man.”

“Not that busy.”

“This is blackmail. I’m going to bed.”

“Bed’s a good start. If you don’t have a date set up in a week, I’m calling her.”

“And how on earth am I supposed to do that?”

“Anthea had some ideas.”

“Oh, God,” he mutters, and retreats to his bedroom.

* * *

When he meets Jan at the airport, things are a little awkward. They’ve only seen each other twice in the past fifteen years: the first time for his mum’s funeral and the second for his dad’s. Airline tickets from Canada aren’t cheap, and they’ve never been particularly close.

Still, she tries. She drives to Heathrow to get him, and he’s an instant hit with Katie, his three-year-old niece.

“So,” she says on the way home, “why now?”

They hadn’t discussed much on the phone. “It seemed like the right thing to do.”

“How long’ve you been doing physical therapy?”

“About ten years.”

“And you’re going to try and get a job doing that?”

“Probably. Maybe. There’s another possibility but I don’t want to say anything unless it comes through. I have an interview on Monday.”

“Yeah?” she says, with a hint of scorn in her voice. “What else are you qualified to do?” She knows about his past, of course, and all about the coaching job that went down in flames.

He bites back a sarcastic response and turns around to talk to Katie instead.

The jet lag is wicked for a few days, but by Monday his body is mostly on English time.

He takes the tube to central London for his interview, leaving plenty of time in case there are any delays. (So, of course, there aren’t.) He gets there half an hour early, so he walks up and down the road a few times to burn off his nervous energy. He mentally rehearses everything they could ask, all the answers he could give. There’s no point in trying to sugar-coat the past fifteen years; he is who he is.

When he’s ushered in to the office, he’s surprised to find three people there to interview him. His heart starts pounding and he forces himself to smile and take deep breaths. _What have you got to lose? Nothing. (Everything.)_

They exchange formalities and launch right in.

“We’re glad you contacted us, although frankly we were a little surprised. It’s been a while since you did this sort of thing. Why now?”

“Well, sir, I think I’d still make a good coach. I’d like to get back into the industry.”

The second man speaks up. “You’ve been a ski instructor for fifteen years at Whistler, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Teaching mostly children, I’d imagine.” His tone is unbearably superior.

_You wouldn’t be here if they weren’t interested. Don’t take the bait._ “Correct.”

He sits back and smiles. “Good training for this position. Some of our athletes behave like five-year-olds.”

Back to the first man. “You were an excellent coach before the… um… incident.” He’s trying to be delicate.

Greg appreciates his tact but isn’t sure if he should come out and say, _“I’ve been off the drugs for fifteen years. Just ask.”_ Perhaps not. No reason to make everyone more uncomfortable. He decides to treat it with a lighter tone. “Thank you. You’ll be pleased to know that both my leg and my psyche made a complete recovery.” All three men seem to breathe easier, and he’s glad he didn’t take a heavy-handed approach.

“So, the position would be contingent on a certain amount of travel, you understand. Roughly two to three months a year, spread mostly throughout the winter season. More during Olympic years, of course.”

Excitement fills his veins just thinking about it. _Stay calm._ “Of course. Um, just so I’m clear, which position are you considering me for? We didn’t discuss it on the phone.”

“Assistant coach for alpine racing. I presume that’s your area of interest?”

“Yes. Yes. Definitely.” He tries to keep a neutral expression but his eyes go wide with delight. He hadn’t dared hope for anything this good, especially starting out. “Thank you,” he adds, just in case his appreciation isn’t obvious.

He’s ready for more questions—he hasn’t even heard from the third man—but they look at each other and exchange vague nods. Then the Director stands up. “Well then, we’d love to have you working with the British ski team again, Mr Lestrade. You have some very unique expertise and it’s a shame to waste it. We have an offer package if you’d like to look it over.”

He resists the urge to say, _“I’ll sign whatever you want me to”_ and dance around the room. Instead, he beams and says, “That sounds great. Thank you very much.”

Their offer is more than generous, even with the housing prices in London. Hell, he’d probably do the job for free if they asked him. He knows they’re taking him on blind faith; there are other people more qualified—far more qualified—than he is at the moment, but he’s ready to leave behind fifteen years of self-doubt and see if he can live up to their expectations.

He walks out of the office ready to head back to the tube, but it’s sunny, and he’s got nowhere else to be for the rest of the day. (Hell, for the rest of the week. He starts next Monday.) He turns down Charlotte Street and keeps going until he hits Soho Square. Except for a few strung-out partiers clinging to a too-ambitious weekend, the park is empty.

He finds a bench and sits down, his mind catching up to what he’d just agreed to, his new life stretching out in front of him. It’s going to be strange, back in the world of professional skiing. It’s filled with young kids too wrapped up in themselves to notice anyone or anything else, just like he’d been at the time, but this time he has a new perspective. Different priorities.

He’ll be in London (mostly). He can put down roots. Get out of his flat and have a life. He’s not stuck in the middle of nowhere. He can go to concerts again. Football. Every guy he meets won’t fall under one of his ‘No-Dating Rules’. Hell, London even has clubs. Bars. He wrinkles his nose. It’s not really his scene and he’s too old for that sort of thing, but at least it’s an option.

He pushes the thought of _‘Mycroft’_ from his mind because he’s been doing it since February, and by now it’s second nature.

Then he has to push it away a second time, because surely Mycroft is sitting—what?—a mile away from here at the moment? Two, at most. His office must be near Whitehall or MI6 or Downing Street or somewhere like that.

He kicks at a stray pebble. So many conflicting feelings, and he’s not sure which one should dominate. He settles for repressing them all and focussing on his new job instead. He leans back and basks in the sun, smiling so hard his face might break. Then he breaks out laughing; he still can’t believe it. It’s going to blow Janice’s mind. 

* * *

Mycroft goes on his date.

Anthea sets him up with an intel analyst—a lovely man: pleasant, funny, interesting—and Mycroft spends the entire evening wanting to choke himself on a breadstick. At least he doesn’t want to choke the analyst.

He presents Sherlock with the dinner receipt as evidence and says, “Now will you shut up?”

“One dinner? You didn’t make much of an effort,” he says, but doesn’t press the issue.

That Saturday morning, Sherlock is waiting for him in the kitchen with breakfast and a piece of paper. It contains a mobile number.

“Phone this number and I’ll shut up. I promise.”

“Very funny. What is it? A sex line? Advice for the lovelorn?”

“I put real effort into this.”

Mycroft keeps waiting for him to elaborate, but Sherlock sits quietly and says nothing else.

“This is asinine. I’m not phoning a mystery number.”

“It’s nothing politically sensitive.”

“I’m not doing it.”

Sherlock waxes poetic. “Imagine how peaceful your life would be if I left you alone. You could work ’til all hours. Drive yourself into the ground if you wanted. Ignore the entire human race.”

“I could make you disappear,” he says viciously, even though they both know he would never do anything of the sort.

“One phone call. That’s all.”

He looks daggers at Sherlock. “Do you _promise_ you’ll drop this? If you don’t, I’ll never bail you out of anything again.”

“I promise.”

He dials the number. His heart pounds with each unanswered ring, and it finally goes to voicemail.

“Hi, you’ve reached Greg Lestrade. Leave me—”

Mycroft yanks the phone from his ear and stabs at the ‘End Call’ button like his life depends on it. “Bloody hell, Sherlock! What do you think you’re doing?”

“Trying to help.”

“It’s not… helping.”

“It’s a UK number.”

“Well, obviously—”

_Oh._

_Not obviously._

_What’s Greg doing in London?_

“Wait. Explain.” His brilliant powers of deduction have abandoned him in his panic. It’s easier to ask. He’s not too proud, not this time.

“Well, you’re clearly not over him, so I got his number from your phone and called him in Canada.”

“I _am_ over—” he starts, but then Sherlock’s words sink in. “Wait. You _what?”_ he says, outraged.

“Well, it was a great plan, but it didn’t work. His phone was disconnected. No new number listed.”

“But…?”

“So I called the ski school, but they told me he didn’t work there. Hasn’t since February.”

The air feels too heavy to breathe. He got him sacked after all. _Oh. God._ All sorts of ugly scenarios float through his mind.Greg must hate him. He’s lost in his thoughts when he realises Sherlock has started talking again.

“I found his name on a physical therapy website from a few years ago—turns out he works there in the summers—but when I called them, they said he left a few weeks ago to go to London.”

“For what? A holiday? A job?” He tries to keep the desperation out of his voice.

“You’re the one who stalks for a living, not me.”

“Not by the sounds of it,” he mutters. He’s torn between being outraged, grateful, and panicked. “So how’d you get this number?”

“Directory enquiries.”

“Oh, good Lord.” He runs his hand through his hair. _Panicked_. _He’s going to go with ‘panicked’_. He’s vaguely aware that he’s acting like an idiot, but he can’t get his feelings under control. “Now he has my number. What if he calls me back?”

“Isn’t that the point? Although it might look better if you phone him back first. He’s going to wonder about a missed call from an unknown number.” 

“No, that’s not what I meant. This is a horrible idea. I’m _over_ him.”

“So you keep saying. The evidence suggests otherwise.”

“What evidence?”

Sherlock leaves the room and comes back with Mycroft’s holiday photos and Greg’s note.

“Those things are _private!_ You stole my wallet?”

“No, I just went through it. You shouldn’t leave it around at night. Besides, if you were really over him, you’d have deleted his number. Nice photos, by the way.”

He’s torn between ordering Sherlock out of the room (or the flat, or possibly the country) and asking for his advice. Asking _Sherlock_ for advice. What has the world come to? He sits at the table and cradles his head in his hands, trying to think. 

* * *

It’s the Saturday after his first week at work, and Greg’s trying to have a bit of a lie-in—‘trying’, because he’s living on Jan’s sofa and Katie is normally up by seven. Still, he’s only been here a week and he has an appointment to see a flat at two, so it hasn’t been too bad.

His phone vibrates on the floor next to him, and he glances down at it in a sleepy haze. _Unknown number. Odd._ He ignores it and drifts back to sleep until Katie jumps on top of him and demands scrambled eggs ‘because you make them better than Mummy’. (He’s also ‘more fun’, ‘better at playing with dolls’, and prefers him to read all her bedtime stories.) Yesterday she asked if he could stay and ‘be Daddy’. (Her dad left them for another woman last year.) Needless to say, Jan’s about to throttle him for swooping in and becoming Katie’s favourite person.

When he gets up forty minutes later and phones back, he has no idea of the chaos this causes on the other side of London. (Mycroft looking at the phone as if it’s possessed; Sherlock shoving it into his hands; Mycroft shaking his head violently until Sherlock says, “Voicemail will be worse.” Mycroft freezing like a deer in the headlights and answering it.)

“Hello?” Greg says, when there’s nothing but silence on the other end.

There’s a pause, and then a tentative voice says, “Hello, Greg.”

“Mycroft?” he says incredulously, but doesn’t know where he’s going beyond that, because all his thoughts from the past four months crowd his head at once.

“Yes, I’m sorry to disturb you.”

“Wait. How did you know I was here?”

“It wasn’t me,” he says, sounding defensive. “I swear I’m not stalking you. It was Sherlock. He… tricked me into this. It’s a long story.”

“He _tricked_ you into it? I find that hard to believe.” He’s not sure, but he thinks he hears giggling in the background. He feels as though he should be upset, but he’s more curious than anything.

“I wanted to inform you pre-emptively in case you returned your missed call from earlier.”

He thinks about this for a second. “Because you calling me unexpectedly is much less ambush-y than me calling an unknown number and unexpectedly finding out it’s you?”

There’s silence on the line and then, “Sorry. I hadn’t thought about it like that.”

“No, apparently not.” He can’t decide if he’s irritated or amused. He’s leaning towards amused, because Mycroft sounds completely out of his depth, and he feels bad for him.

“I’m very sorry. This was a horrible idea. Please forgive me, it won’t—”

“—no, hang on. Just give me a sec. This is a lot to process.”

“Of course,” Mycroft says, without a moment’s hesitation.

“Look, just so we’re clear, I’m not sure where I stand on this. But I do want to talk about it, yeah?”

“Of course. Thank you. Look, I want to apologise—”

“—it’s fine. Are you doing anything this afternoon? Oh, damn. I have a thing at two I can’t cancel. Can I phone you after I’m finished? Meet up somewhere quiet enough to talk?”

“Of course. Where are you? I’ll come and meet you.”

“Out in Hounslow, but I’m coming in to the city today. You’re in London, right?”

“Yes, Central London,” Mycroft says, accompanied by snickering in the background. There’s a thump, and the giggles stop abruptly. Apparently, the sibling bickering is unchanged.

“Okay. Any preferences?”

“We could meet at Russell Square. It’s right off the Piccadilly Line and there’s a nice little cafe in the park.”

He knows the place. It’s a small park, with plenty of benches and trees. “Sure, that sounds good. I’ll phone you when I’m on my way, yeah?”

“All right.” Greg’s about to reply when Mycroft adds, “Thank you for doing this. I’m very grateful.”

He’s more confused by the whole episode than anything else, but he says, “Yeah, of course. It’s good to hear from you,” because it is. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”

When he hangs up, Katie wanders up to him with a frown on her face. “You okay, Uncle Greg?”

“Yeah sweetie, I think so.” 

* * *

Mycroft sits there, staring at the phone in his hand, stunned.

“I can’t believe he’s willing to talk to me.”

“Why wouldn’t he? You’re no prize catch, but he seemed to like you.”

He gives Sherlock a withering look and cradles his head in his hands. “It’s my fault he got sacked.”

“What, from the ski school? Were you that bad?”

“Very funny. Instructors aren’t allowed to date clients, and he got caught. He told me he got it sorted out, but if he left in February… I don’t know. I don’t think he’d have left voluntarily.”

“I had no idea.”

“Neither did I.”

“Did he sound upset?”

“No. More surprised than anything.”

“Hm. I suppose he would be.”

Mycroft looks at his cold toast and bins it. “Did you already eat?”

“You know how much I enjoy a five-course meal in the mornings,” Sherlock says, sarcastically. “I only made you toast because I thought you’d be furious with me after the phone call.”

Mycroft laughs. He’s so glad Greg’s agreed to see him that he’s willing to forgive Sherlock almost anything right now. “You’re wrong for once. You want eggs?” 

* * *

Greg walks from his soon-to-be flat to the tube station in Holland Park, his signed lease papers tucked into his coat.

The head coach for the snowboarding team recommended the place; she lives just down the road. He’d never have thought to look in this area—it’s not near the office—but he’ll be able to ride his bike to work to stay in shape. Dodging the London traffic will give him an adrenaline rush to start the day, and there’s always the tube if the weather is miserable. It beats commuting from the suburbs.

He phones Mycroft to let him know he’s on his way.

Mycroft offers to meet him at the station. He sounds nervous, as if Greg could get lost or back out, or that a million things could happen to ruin their plans. He doesn’t say any of that, of course, but it’s there in his voice.

He agrees and finds it endearing instead of smothering.

Mycroft is pacing on the pavement outside the entrance hall when he gets there, smiling nervously. “Greg, it’s good to see you,” he says, extending his hand in an awkward handshake.

Greg laughs, ignoring his hand and pulling him into a loose hug. “It’s good to see you too. How are you?”

“I’m doing well, thank you. You?”

“Good.” Greg thinks about everything that’s changed since he last saw him. “Yeah, things are good.”

As they head towards the park, they talk about everything but the elephant in the room: the weather, the early summer tourists, the maintenance work on the tube. Mycroft presents a calm facade, but his hands clench and unclench, his knuckles white with tension. By the time they walk through the iron gates of the park and he motions towards the busy tea room, he’s even paler than usual. It looks like he’s going to come apart.

“Would you rather sit somewhere quieter?” Greg says.

Mycroft closes his eyes for a second, breathes through his nose, and nods.

They make their way to a bench off the main path and sit down.

Greg reaches out to put his hand on Mycroft’s knee. He jerks away at the contact, startled. He’s not sure what to make of it. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think Mycroft was terrified of him.

“Look,” Greg says tentatively, “is everything okay? I know we left things in a weird place, but I didn’t know they were this bad.”

“I…”

“What?”

“I found out—well, Sherlock did—about the ski school.” He pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea. If I’d known, I would have—”

“—that’s what this is about?”

“Yes. No.” He sighs. “Yes, that’s why I’m a wreck. No, that’s not why I asked to meet.”

“Oh, my God,” he says, and starts laughing.

Mycroft looks up at him, unnerved. “What? This isn’t funny.”

“No, I know, but if it wasn’t for that, I wouldn’t even be here.” His enthusiastic smile makes Mycroft even more uncomfortable.

“I got you sacked, yes?” Mycroft says, trying desperately for a conversational anchor.

_Oh, God. Please tell me you didn’t know before today, because if you’ve been worrying about it like this I’ll never forgive myself._ “When did you find out?”

“This morning.”

“Thank God. I never intended for you to know. I wanted you to have a nice holiday.”

“And I did, but I cost you your _job_.”

“Yeah, and losing it was the best thing that’d happened to me in years.” He spends the next ten minutes telling him the whole saga, all about Joel and the tip and the ski waxing job and the revelation he’d had during his hike. He finishes with the news about his new job as a ski coach. “You were right. I needed to forgive myself and move on. If I hadn’t met you, I’d probably still be there, hating myself.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.” Then, more quietly because it hurts, he adds, “To be honest, I should have looked you up and thanked you, but I couldn’t face the idea.”

Mycroft frowns. “Why not?”

“Well, you said it yourself more than once: it was a holiday fling and your job didn’t allow for relationships.” If his words come out seeming a little bitter, it’s because they are.

“Oh. Right.” Mycroft is silent for a moment and then says, “I suppose I had that coming.”

Greg shrugs and looks away. “Sorry. Been nursing that for a while.”

“That’s fair.”

“I was surprised to get your call this morning.”

Mycroft huffs a laugh. “I was surprised to have inadvertently made it.”

“Yeah… what was that?”

“Sherlock’s twisted idea of an intervention.”

Greg doesn’t mention what he’d said to him the morning they’d left Whistler: _I hope you know what you’ve done._ Sherlock might know Mycroft’s emotions better than Mycroft does. However annoying he may be, Greg owes him a debt of gratitude for arranging this psychotic ‘intervention’. Left to their own devices, who knows how long it would have taken them to meet up?

Mycroft stares at the ground for a few moments. Then he looks Greg in the eye and says, “About my job not allowing for relationships…”

“Yes?”

“I was wrong. It was me, not my job. I’m sorry it took me so long to figure that out.”

When Greg puts his hand back on Mycroft’s knee, he doesn’t flinch away. “So you’ve changed your mind?”

“If you’re interested. I know a week isn’t much to go on, but I’d like to see where it leads. I feel like there’s something there.”

He takes Mycroft’s hand and gives it a fond squeeze. “Yeah, me too.”

“Really?” Mycroft says, his face relaxing into huge smile.

“Yeah, really.” 

* * *

They spend most of the unseasonably warm afternoon at the park, catching up.

After an hour on the bench, they move to the cafe to get some tea and a bite to eat. All the benches are taken when they head back out, so they sit on the grass beneath one of the large trees. Greg, in a gesture straight out of a Jane Austen novel, puts his coat on the ground so Mycroft’s light-coloured trousers won’t suffer any grass stains.

Mycroft looks at him, eyebrows high, because he can’t decide if it’s ridiculous, or sweet, or both.

Greg gets flustered and bends to pick it back up. “Sorry,” he says. “Don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I thought it was lovely. I’d forgotten how much you like my clothes.”

Greg lets out a wicked chuckle. “Remember the suit thing?”

“God. How could I _forget?”_

And that nips that conversation in the bud, because what else can you say in a public park that won’t lead to wanting to be somewhere _other_ than a public park, very quickly? They both sit there with stupid grins on their faces instead.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” Greg says.

_‘May’ you_ , Mycroft thinks automatically, and then mentally slaps himself for doing it, because this isn’t Sherlock. “Of course.”

“What exactly happened this morning? With the phone call?”

“Ah.”

“I mean, you don’t have to explain it if you don’t want to, but I’m dying to know. It doesn’t seem like you’d be tricked into doing anything, not even by Sherlock. Especially not by him.”

“It was more a case of ‘bribed and ambushed’. He’s been on this campaign….” He’s about to say ‘to get me to move on from you’. Now he realises he had to move on from the idea that he could never be in a relationship. Perhaps Sherlock knew that all along.

Greg tilts his head, waiting for him to continue.

Mycroft doesn’t bother finishing the sentence. “He gave me a number, assured me it wouldn’t be an international incident, and told me he’d leave me alone if I called it.”

“Huh.” Greg considers this for a moment. “How’d he know I was back in London? I’ve only been here a week.”

Mycroft explains: Sherlock’s phone calls, the photos, the note—

“—you kept the note?”

He gives Greg a small, wistful smile. “Of course I kept the note.” He takes it from his wallet, the small piece of paper solidly creased and permanently curved from its months against his body. He’s not sure why he put it back after Sherlock took it out this morning. Luck, perhaps.

“This isn’t why I came back. You know that, right? I never thought I’d be able to change your mind.”

“Would you have tried?” Mycroft asks, sounding more hopeful than he should for any tactical advantage.

Greg doesn’t answer him directly. Instead, he says, “You know, I tried dating a couple times, but nothing was the same.”

“So did I.”

“Really?”

“Well, once,” Mycroft says. “It was part of the bribe. Disastrous.”

“I was thinking I’d phone you once I’d settled into my job a bit. Hoped you might listen to reason.”

“Am I being reasonable enough?” he says, hoping he sounds endearing.

“I don’t know. Will you go out to dinner with me?”

“That depends,” Mycroft says, mock-seriously.

“On?”

“Does your current employer have any draconian dating rules? Because I don’t want to make that mistake again.”

Greg breaks out into a smile. “You had me worried for a second.”

“Sorry. Of course I’ll go.”

“Good. That’s settled. Now the eternal question: what to eat?”

A small, evil thought lodges in Mycroft’s brain, and he chuckles.

“What?”

“Well, this is rather forward, but I have Chinese take-away in the fridge. You know, in case the proximity to a bed is more important than the quality of the cuisine.”

Greg _beams._ “Haven’t had decent take-away since I’ve been here.”

“It’s a day old. I can’t guarantee it’ll be ‘decent’.”

“I promise you I could care less. I’d be just as happy with cold toast.”

“Would you excuse me for a moment?”

“Yeah, sure.”

He texts Sherlock. _Consider your ‘mission’ successful. I’d like to ask that you make yourself scarce for the evening. I’m sure there are any number of fine hotels that would love to take my money on your behalf._

A few seconds later he gets a reply. _What, I’m not invited? -SH_

Mycroft heaves a sigh.

Another text follows on its heels. _I’m glad it worked out. I’ll be back on Monday. -SH_

_Thanks,_ Mycroft texts back.

He looks up at Greg and smiles. “I needed to make sure Sherlock wouldn’t interrupt our dinner plans.”

* * *

When they step out of the taxi in front of the massive townhouse, Greg takes one look at it and mutters, “Bloody hell.” Then he apologises.

Mycroft smiles. “No, it’s a bit much. I’ve been thinking of moving somewhere smaller.”

“I didn’t mean to be rude, I’ve just never seen anything like it. It’s gorgeous.” Now he understands why Sherlock giggled when Mycroft mentioned his location. He probably saw this coming.

The whole place is more ‘comfortable’ than he would have guessed. From the exterior, he’d expected it to be like a museum, but it’s tasteful, relaxed elegance. And then there’s the kitchen. “Ooh, you’ve got a double oven!” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he feels like an idiot. There’s nothing like complimenting a man on his kitchen appliances to win him over.

Mycroft looks sheepish. “I’m afraid I’ve never used it, but I’m very good with the microwave.”

“I did a couple summers as a line cook in Whistler. I can always give you some tips.”

“Ah, that explains why dinner was so good that night. You have hidden skills.”

He quirks a smile. “I think you uncovered most of them. Sorry.”

Mycroft opens the fridge and scans the contents. “Can I get you a drink? Um, something to eat?”

He’s endearingly nervous, but one of them is going to have to do something about this line of questioning, or they’ll spend half the evening drinking tea and eating Chinese food, and Greg suspects that isn’t what Mycroft really wants. It’s certainly not what _he_ wants.

“Can I be really blunt about something?”

“Of course.”

“You mentioned the kitchen’s proximity to a bed.”

Colour rushes to Mycroft’s cheeks. “I did. Yes. Is that something you’d be interested in?”

He walks over and stands in front of him, very close. He brings his face up to Mycroft’s, their lips almost touching in a kiss, and very quietly says, “Are you?” because if Mycroft is having second thoughts about any of this, he wants to know before he makes a complete arse of himself.

“I am.”

Greg bridges the remaining space between them, and when their lips touch, it’s as if four months fall away. Mycroft’s eyes flutter closed and the tension melts out of his posture as their shared memories of each other’s bodies take over. It has the initial, tentative moments of a first kiss, but then they’re back in the ski lodge and Mycroft’s hotel suite.

When they break apart, Mycroft pulls him close. He hangs onto him almost desperately and whispers, “God, I missed you,” against Greg’s cheek.

“I missed you, too.” He doesn’t pull away, even though he wants to look into Mycroft’s eyes. It’s enough to breathe him in, feel the warmth of his body after all this time. “It sounds silly, but things weren’t the same after you left.”

“Things weren’t the same after I came back,” Mycroft says with a rueful laugh, “just ask Sherlock.”

“So perhaps we can pick up where we left off, yeah?” He pulls back and looks at Mycroft. Seeing his smile brings back memories of their lazy mornings spent in bed, and of days on the slopes, and of each time he wished they had more than a week to spend together. And now it looks like they will.

“I’d like nothing more,” Mycroft says, and pulls him in the direction of the bedroom.

* * *

Greg makes a quick trip back to Hounslow on Sunday afternoon to get a few changes of clothes and the stuff he’ll need for work on Monday. Janice tries to give him the third degree—especially about the black limo idling in the driveway—but he smiles and tells her he’s catching up with an old friend. He can pick up the keys to his new flat on Monday, so it won’t be a problem for long; he’ll move in properly at the weekend. It’s not the first time she’s disapproved of his ‘life choices’, but she’ll come around.

Other than that, they don’t leave Mycroft’s flat. They eat; they talk; they have sex; they nap; they wake up and discover it’s not all a dream and they do it all over again. It’s all very hedonistic and brilliant.

They meet for dinner every night that week, but Greg always goes back to his flat. He doesn’t want to screw things up before they’ve had a chance to get going. There’s time, now.

Greg summons the nerve to ask Sherlock for lunch, and they meet in Soho Square on Thursday. Sherlock looks more perplexed than anything.

“Nice to see you again,” Greg says, because it’s the polite thing to say, and ‘Ambivalent about seeing you again’ probably wouldn’t strike the right tone.

Sherlock gives him a forced, shark-like smile that doesn’t ease his nervousness. “Mycroft seems happy you’re back.”

“Look, I want to thank you for what you did. I know you did it for him, not me, but I’m very grateful.”

He’d been at a loss for what to get Sherlock as a gift, eventually falling back on ‘Get him a nice scarf and hope for the best.’ He’d gone to Gieves and Hawkes, the shop where Mycroft buys his suits. Thankfully, the man who’d assisted him had been in his forties—definitely _not_ Mycroft’s tailor. He wouldn’t have been able to keep a straight face otherwise. The scarf is a delicate merino weave, one the man had assured him would be appropriate for almost any weather. Sherlock is still wearing the same black coat he’d worn in Whistler—even though it’s June—so perhaps it’s the perfect gift.

Sherlock takes it out. It’s a deep blue, very similar in colour to the one Mycroft chose in Whistler. He raises an appraising eyebrow and then loops it around his neck with a satisfied, genuine smile. “Thank you.”

“Like I said, I really appreciate it.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t think it was for the best. I just want him to be happy.”

“Thanks. Me too. Do you want to grab something for lunch?”

“Not really.”

That throws him for a second, but then he remembers who he’s talking to. “Right, okay then. I’ll be getting back to work.”

“Oh, by the way….”

“Hm?”

“I found myself another flat, so I won’t be walking in on any ‘dinners’.”

“That’s good. We find it hard to keep all the sex confined to the bedroom,” he fires back, keeping a straight face.

Sherlock winces and looks away. “Right. I need to get back to… something. Thank you for the scarf.”

“Thank you for what you did.”

“Don’t hurt him.”

“I’ll do my best not to.”

With that, Sherlock gives him a tight smile and heads off towards the edge of the park.

_Thank God I got the normal one_ , Greg thinks.

* * *

That first Monday during lunch, Mycroft goes to Selfridges and buys a picture frame. He takes the Whistler picture from his drawer, frames it, and places it to the left of his laptop. That evening, when Anthea asks what he’d like ordered for dinner, he tells her he has other plans.

She smiles and says, “I’m glad to hear it.”

Life at work returns to normal, more or less. He spends his evenings with Greg instead of with intel reports, and the intel reports are none the worse for it. Being lovesick and bitter had affected his productivity.

It’s the first serious relationship he’s had in years, and he keeps expecting it to implode, but it doesn’t. Greg makes his first trip for work—to Chile for summer ski training—and although they miss each other, it’s not bad.

It’s early autumn when he’s forced to disappear to Serbia for a week and the only message he can get to Greg is ‘Back soon, I promise.’ Greg replies with a text that says, ‘Be careful. I love you.’

As soon as Mycroft gets back on English soil, he asks Greg to move in.

Greg does.

And even living with him doesn’t cause any problems. Mycroft had always assumed cohabitation would involve constant bickering about the contents of the fridge or the organisation of closet space or… something. (With Sherlock, it had involved the flammability of his kitchen.) It’s not that there aren’t issues, they just don’t bicker about them. They resolve them and move on. After all his years of dealing with Sherlock, it’s a refreshing change.

He has the Whistler photo enlarged, buys a nice wall frame for it, and hangs it next to the portrait of the Queen. It’s completely out of character for the office, but he doesn’t care. If anyone so much as dares to look at it the wrong way, he stares them down until they apologise.

Anthea thinks it’s the nicest photo of him she’s ever seen.

It’s odd, being this _happy._ He’s spent his life being driven and intelligent, but he’s also been cynical and detached and bored. Being around Greg has given him a new perspective on life and brought him joy he’s never experienced before.

And really good sex. There’s still a lot of that.

But the quiet times are just as good. He loves lazing around on Sunday mornings eating breakfast. Greg always cooks, and Timbit—their golden labrador (he’s glazed, not powdered)—always begs for a slice of bacon. Mummy had been so excited when they’d adopted him from the rescue society; she treats him like a grandchild.

Now Mycroft _wants_ to go home at the end of the day. It’s so pedestrian and domestic—all the things he never thought he wanted in life, but he was wrong. It’s brilliant.

One night, lying in bed with Greg curled asleep beside him, he tries to trace back the web of events leading to this point: the family holiday, Mummy’s insistence, his inability to ski, missing the first family ski trip, Greg hitting that patch of ice, his trip to his aunt’s as a child…. There are so many factors that could have changed this outcome, and it’s all random chance, or fate, or whatever theory you subscribe to.

Except for one thing.

On his way home from work the next day, he buys a bottle of Kahlúa, some really good cocoa, and a can of whipped cream.

* * *

Greg opens the door to a cosy chalet nestled in the woods and props their ski gear just inside. He holds it open as Mycroft walks in with their luggage.

This is the twelfth ski trip they’ve taken together: almost every time he goes abroad to coach a World Cup event, they both take the following few days off and make a holiday of it. He convinced him early on that the world could manage for a few days without him (and it does), and Mycroft has honed his skiing skills at some of the best resorts in Europe.

Mycroft’s confidence increased drastically after his tentative efforts at Whistler, and now he keeps up with Greg on the steeps, bombs down the groomed runs, and is justifiably excited about a good powder day. He never imagined he’d have a partner who shares his interest in the sport. Sometimes he suspects it’s as much about what happens after they get off the slopes, but if he’s cultivated Mycroft’s taste for spiked cocoa and leg massages, who can blame him?

He checks the fridge and the cupboards; they’re pre-stocked as specified, with plenty of fresh ingredients from the nearby town. (They have this down to a science now.) When he moved in with Mycroft, cooking became a pleasure instead of a chore. It’s nice to have your hard work appreciated, especially when that person cleans up the kitchen once you’re done. If he needs a break from the cooking, he calls upon Mycroft’s unparalleled expertise in the art of making dinner reservations. They make a good team.

It’s hard to believe they’ve been together for over two years now, and that they have a house, and a dog, and that he’s been to a formal dinner at Buckingham Palace. He and Sherlock found a common interest in the chemical compositions of ski wax for different temperatures. (It’s a surprisingly complex topic.) The Christmas dinners aren’t nearly as dire as Mycroft predicted. His parents adore him, and even Sherlock’s snark seems more affectionate than harsh these days.

And somehow, he still feels like a lovestruck teenager and it’s glorious.

It’s not perfect all the time, of course. Some nights, Mycroft comes home from work at two in the morning with lines etched into his forehead, and Greg holds him and runs his fingers through his hair until he falls asleep. Other times, he disappears for a week and Greg has to take it on faith that he’ll come back in one piece. When his own job takes him across the globe, they exchange nightly (sometimes jet-lagged) phone calls and look forward to the short holidays at the end. But in the end, it’s easy to make it work because this is exactly where he’s meant to be in life: with Mycroft.

“Come outside,” Greg says that night, because the sky is moonless and inky black and filled with countless stars, and they wrap themselves in an eiderdown and lean against the side of the car, looking up at their patch of sky through the trees. “You can’t see the stars like this in London.”

They must look like idiots, wrapped in their feather cocoon, but the bright band of the Milky Way stretches overhead, and they don’t feel the freezing cold air.

They stare in awe for a while, but Mycroft breaks the silence when a steadily moving ‘star’—a satellite—flies overhead. “I think that’s one of mine.”

Greg bursts into a fit of giggles. Living with Mycroft comes with mandatory background checks, and by now he has enough clearances to know a little about what Mycroft does for a living. It probably _is_ one of his.

“I haven’t seen the sky like this since I was a child,” Mycroft says, more seriously. “I used to have a telescope. I’d spend hours outside in the cold, taking notes. Mummy despaired of me.”

He can’t see why that would be a bad thing, but he doesn’t understand a lot of things about her. “I always loved stargazing. I never had a telescope, but I memorised the constellations when I was a kid in Switzerland. I liked that they were the same there as they were at home.”

“Good thing you weren’t going to boarding school in Australia,” he says, squeezing Greg’s hand underneath the feather comforter.

“Yeah,” he says, and smiles.

He can’t remember ever being happier than he is right now, being with Mycroft, doing a job he loves.

Their breath clouds up around them, and the air smells the same way it did that night in Whistler. It’s beautiful, it’s perfect, and it’s damned cold. “Let’s go inside before we freeze,” Greg says.

“No more stargazing?”

“There’s always tomorrow. I have it on good authority that there’s cocoa inside.”

* * *

{ the end }


	14. Author's Notes and Pictures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These are author's notes and pictures for _Cold Hands, Warm Heart_. I had fun doing this for _The DI and the Spy 2_ , and people seemed to enjoy it, so I'm doing it again.

**Logistics**

_Cold Hands, Warm Heart_ is a Mystrade ski instructor AU. It’s set in Whistler, British Columbia, in Canada. Greg is the ski instructor and Mycroft is there on holiday.

Of course, if you’re reading these Author’s Notes, you probably already know all that!

I started writing on November 20, 2014 and published the final chapter on March 29, 2015. I wrote it for the Winter Mystrade exchange, which occurred on January 9, 2015.

The story is 48,541 words long. You had to post ‘at least 1000 words’ for the exchange. I knew from the beginning it would be longer than that, but I’d expected it to be more like 15-20,000 words.

I wanted to get the bulk of the fic written before the end of the year so I could edit and post the whole thing on time, but it didn’t quite work out like that! By January 8, I was at 26,500 words and thinking I was ‘close’, but I’ve never been very good at estimating that sort of thing.

My second ‘hard deadline’ was a personal goal to finish and publish it by the end of February. I tried very hard to meet this, but due to medical issues and my inability to predict wordcounts, I didn’t.

I made a weekend trip to Whistler in early March and used the opportunity to take some photos of the locations. It’s been unseasonably warm this year and the snow was already gone on the lower mountain—unheard of for March! I was determined to finish my winter story while it was still winter _somewhere!_ As it turned out, I was able to publish it at the end of March. Better late than never!

Camillo1978 and youcantsaymylastname did some amazing artwork for the story, and I’d like to give them another quick thank-you here. It really meant a lot to me.

* * *

  **Background**

The idea for this fic was simple enough: an alternate-meeting AU at a ski resort. Greg as a ski instructor? Sure! Who wouldn’t want to take ski lessons from him? Mycroft would be extremely out of his element, which I enjoy writing. I decided to drag Sherlock and their parents along as a bit of comic relief and a chance for sibling bickering.

Almost as soon as I started writing it, I realised I had a problem. I didn’t want to write a ‘Deux ex Mycroft’-type of story where only Mycroft’s money or power allows their relationship to continue long-term.

But, if Mycroft didn’t intervene, how was Greg supposed to leave Canada to continue the relationship? More importantly, what got him to Canada in the first place? Sure, he could have been there all along, but I like to work out the backstory in my head.

I decided, rather arbitrarily, that he would have been an Olympic skier. There was a skier (in real life) in the 1988 Olympics who turned in the fastest time ever recorded for a British skier in a downhill event. (‘Downhill’ encompasses a variety of types of ski racing.) This was irrelevant beyond the one line in the story, but these details—while perhaps meaningless to the reader—helped me build the character in my mind. Olympic skiers often continue on to careers in World Cup ski racing, a path I’d have Greg follow.

Okay, so why is an ex-Olympian teaching at a ski school? Shouldn’t he be off coaching a ski team somewhere? (That’s what most former world-class skiers do.) I sometimes watch ski racing, and it’s a brutal sport. The wrecks, when they happen, are devastating. A career-ending injury and a painkiller addiction seemed like a reasonable possibility. So our disgraced, newly-recovered, ex-professional skier goes off to start a new life in Canada at a world-class ski resort. I can’t say that I blame him. If you’re going to be a ski bum, it’s a great place to do it.

But fifteen years of living alone takes its toll. When someone shows up who understands him, someone witty and intelligent and sexy, it’s not surprising Greg falls hard. And as for Mycroft? Well, it’s Greg. Who wouldn’t fall hard?

* * *

**Story Structure**

I had the whole thing more or less plotted out right from the start. There were a few details that didn’t make it in until much later, but all the elements were there. I knew going in that they wouldn’t get into a proper relationship until after the holiday was over.

I toyed with the idea of telling the entire thing from Mycroft’s point of view (POV) but realised pretty quickly that it wouldn’t work. There would be times when Greg and Mycroft would be in different locations, and I had to be able to tell both sides of the story. That said, I made it all the way to chapter nine in the first draft without using Greg’s POV, and that was almost 20,000 words in. At that point, I saw I needed to go back and insert more of Greg’s POV in the earlier chapters to make it less jarring once his perspective was featured more heavily. So much of it is about Greg’s personal journey, and I wouldn’t have been able to talk about that from Mycroft’s POV. Looking back at the story now, I think some of the early chapters from Greg’s POV seem rushed and could have been stronger, but I don’t make changes once I’ve published chapters.

I approached the storytelling chronologically. There are a few places where the timelines overlap slightly from the different points of view, but there aren’t any flashbacks.

I write in scene-length chunks. Whenever I change POV, I add a new scene. In some cases, I also add a scene for a long gap in time. For this story, I grouped the scenes into one chapter for each day during the holiday (with a couple chapters at each end for the non-holiday portions of the story).

I try to offset tense scenes with more humorous or sexual ones to keep the overall tone of the story from getting too dark. However, I did something I rarely do during the writing process—I deliberately skipped some portions of scenes. There were instances where I wrote in the notes: _[sex here]._

Never. Again.

I did it because I was going through some issues in my life that made it hard to concentrate and get _any_ words on the page, and I wanted to move the plot along. I thought the sex would be easier to ‘do later’. It made sense at the time, but _ugh_. Those were some of the hardest sex scenes I’ve ever written, because I just wanted to be _finished_ and start editing by the time I got to them. Of course, you can’t rush them, so you have to suck it up and do them right.

However, there’s something I’d like to mention: I made one of those scenes ‘fade-to-black’ because it served no purpose other than to move the story along chronologically. Not all sex scenes need to be explicit.

There were other places where I went back and added scenes after I’d finished the first draft. After their encounter in Russell Square, the action originally skipped directly to Greg’s epilogue (the final scene). I was really happy with the way that scene turned out, but as I revised the draft, there were two things that bugged me: Mycroft didn’t get his own ‘side’ of his story in the epilogue, and it skips two years of their life together with nothing in-between. I also wanted to establish an emotional relationship between Sherlock and Greg and tie up that arc.

So, after thinking for the umpteenth time that I was ‘almost done’, I went back and wrote another three scenes.

The scene in Mycroft’s flat was nice because it gave them a solid ‘date’—even if the sex was fade-to-black—and a firm emotional basis to start building on again.

The scene where Greg sets up the lunch with Sherlock was partly to let me continue the ‘date week’ from Greg’s point of view, but also to equalise things between him and Sherlock. He tortures Greg throughout the story but redeems himself by pushing Mycroft into phoning him; Greg, in a sense, owes him for this (in that ending up with your soulmate is far more important than enduring a bit of teasing). I thought having Greg give Sherlock his ubiquitous Blue Scarf could be his way of repaying Sherlock.

The last ‘missing’ scene—Mycroft’s ‘epilogue’—was really important, because it gave me a chance to let Mycroft reflect on how his life had changed for the better while tying up a lot of little loose ends.

The Whistler picture’s escalation from desk drawer, to desktop, to honoured wall-space next to the Queen (as Greg had once suggested) is blatant symbolism for their relationship status, but I never claimed to be subtle.

They ended up with a Golden Labrador because I know Mark Gatiss has one (again: not subtle), and because I know very little about dogs. Of course, it was all too easy to name him Timbit, because glazed doughnuts are golden.

Mycroft’s dangerous trip abroad, while taking less than five sentences, conveys how much they’ve both invested in their relationship after only a few months. Greg cares enough to declare (presumably for the first time) that he loves him, and Mycroft’s potentially life-threatening situation makes him realise his priorities in life and ask Greg to move in with him. I’m quite proud of this little interaction: it’s taken more words to sum it up than it did to write it in the story. I’m not known for my brevity and I felt it said quite a lot.

Once I’d finished Mycroft’s epilogue and the scene with Sherlock and Greg, and with Greg’s epilogue already written, I felt that I’d resolved all three character arcs. I was done—just as soon as I went back and finished those sex scenes.

A few notes on editing:

It’s a lot easier to edit things with fresh eyes. Even leaving something overnight will make things pop out at you that you won’t see just after you’ve written it—not just errors, but awkward structure or phrasing. I’m always tempted to make edits immediately, but I’ve learned that I have to let it sit for at least a day. Before I publish it, I’ll do another edit pass for phrasing, spelling, and grammar, and then a final edit where I read it aloud (or in a whisper if people are around). If I read it aloud one way but have it written another (especially with dialogue), this is a good cue that I should change it.

Writing ‘guidelines’ tell you to cut out anything that isn’t critical to the plot or character development. I think this is (generally) a good guideline. If you have a PWP (porn without plot) scene, and it truly doesn’t move the plot forward, use it to further the relationship between the characters somehow or work on the characterisations. Failing that, you have to make sure the scene is hot enough that the reader doesn’t get bored!

I often cut out overly ‘researchy’ descriptions in my editing process. I think it’s a subconscious form of trying to prove that I’ve done my homework. Those details work best in the background; it gets annoying when you beat people over the head with them.

I’ll mark passages that bug me with a comment to rewrite them later. A lot of times, those things get cut entirely. There’s a reason they’re so stilted and ungainly—they weren’t supposed to be there. My wordcount during the editing process usually goes down and that can be a good thing. Other times I’ll find a scene that was uninspired in the original draft and be able to rewrite it into something better. It goes both ways. I think for _The DI and the Spy 2_ , I ended up with about 2,000 words more after the editing process. I didn’t keep track with this one so I’m not sure.

* * *

**Research**

I’m fortunate to live within driving distance of Whistler, and I’ve been there probably fifteen times over the last twenty years, including a couple times in the summer. Unlike all the Google maps and online research I did for _The DI and the Spy_ , I know Whistler well enough that I didn’t have to do any. I already knew where they’d be on the mountain, what it’s like in the village, and what the trip down the coast road looks like.

As far as experience on the snow goes, I’ve been on skis a few times—enough to know the horrors of ski boots—but these days I’m an avid snowboarder. Although I’m nowhere near Greg’s level of expertise, I’ve dropped into Harmony Bowl a few times on a powder day, and it’s truly exhilarating. All I remember from the few times I skied, about 25 years ago, is how torturous it was as a beginner. I’ve also watched plenty of people getting skiing lessons (and how awful my first snowboarding lessons were), so I completely empathised with Mycroft.

In this respect, I method-acted my way through a lot of this story. I shamelessly admit it.

The first few times I visited Whistler, I was struck by the international diversity of its employees—something that’s hard to miss since everyone’s home country is featured on their badge. The reason for this is Canada’s ‘Working Holiday Visa’, which allows citizens of many countries to visit and work for a two-year time period between the ages of 18 and 30. For reasons I’ve never fully understood, the population skews heavily Australian (by nationality) and good-looking (regardless of nationality or gender).

Reflecting on this, it seemed that while this might have been fun when Greg got there at age 28, it would get less entertaining and more depressing as he got older. And, with a trip to central Vancouver taking about two hours each way, he’s pretty much stuck in the middle of nowhere. It’s an amazing place to visit, and absolutely gorgeous, but I’m not sure I’d want to live there full-time.

The coast road—its proper name is the Sea-to-Sky Highway—is a gorgeous drive. It used to be quite treacherous in the winter, but they blasted away more of the rock and widened the road for the 2010 Olympics. If you ever watched the Battlestar Galactica reboot, they shot Gaius Baltar’s house on the water in this area. (They filmed the show in Vancouver.)

For the suit porn, I unfortunately don’t know much about the subject. I relied on the internet, as I do for so many things. I found Gieves and Hawkes by looking up ‘Savile Row’ online and choosing a shop with a long history. Then I browsed their inventory and came up with some suitable (sorry) options for an outfit. I don’t know if Mycroft would be horrified at what I gave him to wear—I’m much more well-versed in technical fabrics for skiwear—but you don’t need to be too detailed about types of cufflinks when you’re really going for porn. Not unless it’s cufflink porn. I have the tendency to be over-specific and research something to death, and I had to reign that in a little.

Oh, and for the record: like Greg, I got curious about whether or not there was any ‘suit porn’ on the internet. It turns out there is at least one online site dedicated exclusively to the topic. I know I use the phrase ‘suit porn’ to describe sexy suits, but it was entertaining to discover it also has a more literal meaning.

A note regarding spiked cocoa: I’d never actually tried it. I thought it sounded like a good idea—Kahlúa is a coffee liqueur, and coffee and chocolate go together, so why not? (I seemed to recall having seen it on a drinks menu somewhere. Maybe.) As I wrote Mycroft’s epilogue, I had this sudden fear that it would taste horrible, and that the entire time I’d been writing this, I’d been talking about some awful concoction that no one in their right mind would ever want to drink. And, worse yet, that someone would try it as a result of the story and be repulsed. I dug around in our liquor cabinet and found an ancient bottle of the stuff and mixed it up with some cocoa. As Mycroft had surmised, it’s rather sweet, but not bad. So that was a huge relief!

* * *

**Pictures**

_(Note: AO3 doesn't allow links to open in new tabs, so they'll open in this page unless you do it manually. Sorry.)_

I have some pictures on Flickr that give an overview of Whistler and the coast road. They’re here:

[Cold Hands, Warm Heart album on Flickr ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/132483875@N05/sets/72157651905350335/)

But I had to include this one here in the text: it’s the picture Greg and Mycroft had taken at the peak. (I don’t know who the people are, and I apologise if I took a picture of your family seven years ago and put it on the internet.)

 

 

I was surprised to find out that Google Maps has panoramic views of certain parts of Whistler mountain available online. You can explore some of the ski runs and get a feel for what it’s like on the mountain.

Here are some links to supplement the pictures I took.

[One of the “quick” runs Mycroft would have done before meeting up with his family](https://www.google.com/maps/@50.073397,-122.948042,3a,75y,354.67h,65.63t/data=!3m5!1e1!3m3!1s8SxtTSTrHxFVtq0iUhcQkg!2e0!3e5). These are to the right of the lodge.

[The lodge area and the top of Whistler mountain.](https://www.google.com/maps/@50.068895,-122.946137,3a,75y,358.66h,97.93t/data=!3m5!1e1!3m3!1sJL_oqbed7kKNBpbei1c8CQ!2e0!3e5) The glass building is a gondola that connects Whistler and Blackcomb mountains by going directly over the valley!

[The beginner area.](https://www.google.com/maps/@50.098649,-122.951456,3a,75y,173.05h,83.85t/data=!3m5!1e1!3m3!1s2trFHU23K-CCz3RuM4C72A!2e0!3e5) (You can see a gondola from the village passing overhead.):

[Pictures of Stawamus Chief](https://www.google.com/search?q=stawamus+chief&biw=1500&bih=892&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=hiQwVbTqAcatogTz-4DABw&sqi=2&ved=0CAYQ_AUoAQ) (the mountain in Squamish): 

* * *

 

I hope you enjoyed the story and found these notes interesting. Thanks for reading the story.

If you have any questions, [send me an ask](http://chasingriversong.tumblr.com/ask) on tumblr! 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr at [chasingriversong](http://chasingriversong.tumblr.com).


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